


Summer Blue Skies

by destimushi



Series: When Pain Is Pleasure [1]
Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Military, Alternate Universe - Real World, Anal Sex, Betrayal, Bottom Jensen, Cockles, Cockles AU - Freeform, Dom Misha, Explicit Sexual Content, Humiliation, M/M, Military, Non-Consensual, Panic Attacks, Physical Abuse, Physical Torture, Prisoner of War, Rape, Recovery, Rough Sex, Russian Misha Collins, Smut, Stockholm, Stockholm Syndrome, Top Misha, Torture, Triggers, Whipping, how did this plot get in my porn, prisoner jensen, this is a love story I swear, water boarding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-24
Updated: 2017-06-17
Packaged: 2018-03-08 20:59:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 14
Words: 49,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3223241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/destimushi/pseuds/destimushi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>“You really should have just given him what he wanted.” The man circled around Jensen leisurely, as if taking a stroll in the park, and stopped right before him. Eyes the colour of a clear summer sky stared back at him. “But...maybe it’s a good thing you didn’t because now I get what I want.” </em>
</p><p>The mission was to infiltrate. Jensen knew the consequences of capture, and when it happened, he was ready to die for his country. Misha Collins was the master of torture, and it shouldn’t be difficult to hate him, but the interrogator was hot and cold, and Jensen soon found the boundaries between love and hate blurring.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Update, Jan 26, 2017
> 
> This story centres around Stockholm Syndrome, and the original story did not do this disorder justice, so after nearly two years, I finally got around to start revising it and fixing it to bring it up to standard. The plot mostly remains the same, but some details will change as I go through the story to further explore the characters. The piece will be tentatively divided up into six chapters, but it might change as the revision progresses. For those that's already read this and enjoyed it, it might be worth another go, for those that's never read this before I urge you to check the tags before proceeding. Thanks and happy reading!
> 
> As always, thanks to my wonderful beta [JhanaMay](https://archiveofourown.org/users/JhanaMay/pseuds/JhanaMay) for not only catching the mechanical mistakes but setting me on the right track whenever I veer off course. This story would not be what it is without her constant support! 
> 
> ***
> 
> I had been watching a ton of spy/espionage, military, soldier related TV shows and movies, and this idea was the bastard child of all those different storylines and characters that swirled in my twisted little brain. 
> 
> I tried to put down as many tags as I could think of at the moment, but please, please, please let me know if you feel like I've missed any. I do NOT want people to stumble upon this story and hit a trigger somewhere along the line.

Everything hurt. Jensen blinked into the harsh glow of the naked light bulb and groaned; it came out a dry croak when what little saliva he had scratched its way down his parched throat like sandpaper. He took a tentative breath, and when it didn’t hurt to breathe Jensen sucked in large gulps of air, trying to clear his head. The voices around him grew louder as the fog of unconsciousness receded. For a second it was as if he was back in the barracks, nursing a massive hangover with his rowdy roommates crowded around him. A constant pressure on his shoulders—a burning soreness—cut through the hazy daydream and Jensen finally remembered where he was.

Fuck.

“Looks like the pig’s waking up.” A harsh voice shouted in a decibel that made Jensen cringe. His muddled brain deciphered just enough words in the guttural language to know they were about him. Someone threw a bucket of ice water his way, the shock chased the last of the fog away, jolting Jensen back to his senses, or whatever was left of them. 

He spluttered and coughed as water dripped down his nose, unsure whether to be thankful for the moisture or resentful of the cold. Gooseflesh covered his naked torso; this whole godforsaken country was one giant ice box, and Jensen tried desperately to keep his teeth from chattering as water soaked into the waistband of his pants. He glared at his captors through wet lashes, blinking as water dripped into his eyes. 

“Seems like he’s still got some fight left in him.” Rough hands gripped his hair and yanked back sharply, his neck straining like it was about to snap. Eyes so bright they glowed yellow in the saturated light stared down at him; they gleamed with malice and an unhidden desire to inflict pain. Jensen struggled to stand—the toes of his boots scrabbling against the dirty concrete floor—and lessen the pain burning in his scalp. The men laughed around him, the sound harsh and cold and full of disdain. 

Fucking Russians. 

Jensen spat in the soldier’s face and instantly regretted the loss of precious saliva, but watching his tormentor’s smile turn to a scowl as the sticky mess dripped down his chin was almost worth it. “It’ll take a better man than you to break me, you filthy Russian dog,” he grunted in heavily accented Russian, swallowing a whimper when the grip in his hair tightened. Jesus, if the asshole yanked any harder Jensen was going to have a premature bald spot. 

Yellow-Eyes studied Jensen’s face intently as Jensen’s eyes roamed over to the chip in the wall he’d been trying to focus on before he passed out. The fingers in his hair loosened and his head slumped forward, his neck grateful for the sudden release, but the relief was short–lived when a blow came flying out of Jensen’s blind spot, catching him in the jaw. His head snapped to the side, scrambling his brain, and his groan was pathetic; he was too exhausted to actually cry out anymore. 

Another blow connected with the other side of his face, throwing his head back. Fists rained down on him mercilessly. The pain was jagged, slicing into him like daggers. Jensen gritted his teeth and willed his mind to go somewhere else; it hurt a little less when he imagined his body as nothing but a punching bag. Jensen squeezed his eyes shut as a fuzzy darkness pricked at the edges of his vision. He was fading and he welcomed the sanctuary of blissful unconsciousness with open arms. 

The whisper of a door opening halted the beating abruptly. Jensen peered through slitted eyes and winced at the thunderous echo of boots slamming into the concrete floor. The soldiers stood to attention, meaning someone important must be here. Great, just fucking great. 

“At ease, soldiers.” The command was spoken softly in Russian, the voice flat, but it echoed around the small room and worked its way under Jensen’s skin. Boots scuffed against the rough floor as soldiers shuffled to the side. “Mr. Ackles, or do you prefer sergeant?” The voice spoke in barely accented English this time, aloof and dripping with disdain, as if Jensen’s surname was simply not good enough to roll off his tongue. Jensen tensed as recognition pricked at the edges of his consciousness, and when it dawned on him who the voice belonged to, he tried desperately to swallow the fear rising like bile in his throat. 

“Chenkov.” He was glad his voice didn’t betray the dread in the pit of his stomach. There was a blur of movement to the right and pain exploded, raw and blinding, against his jaw. Hard boots connected with the back of his knees, kicking his legs from under him and jarring pain roared in his tortured shoulders. 

“That’s Lieutenant General Chenkov to you.” Chenkov circled Jensen slowly, oblivious to his pained grunts as he struggled back on his feet. “But no matter, I expect no less from an American pig.” Shiny leather boots stopped in front of Jensen. “However, I must say, Mr. Ackles, that I’m quite disappointed and slightly insulted.”

“Oh? And why is that?” Jensen glared at the man standing in front of him. There was a small movement out of the corner of his eye and Jensen couldn’t swallow the pitiful wince as he braced himself against another blow. The blow never landed as the lieutenant general waved the man away, apparently uncaring of the show of disrespect. 

“Yes, insulted that your government would send a novice to infiltrate my camp.” 

Jensen growled indignantly but couldn’t ignore the flush of searing heat as his cheeks burned with embarrassment. 

“They trained you to dodge trees in America, did they not?” The men jeered at the lieutenant general’s words. Jensen kept his mouth shut, his teeth gnawing on the inside of his cheeks to keep him from blurting out something that would further humiliate him. On his drop Jensen’s parachute had gotten tangled in some tree branches. He was thrashing around trying to reach the cords with his knife when a group of soldiers on patrol found him; they made him cut himself loose before trussing him up like a pig for the roasting pit. 

Chenkov waited, an amused grin quirked in the corner of lips, until the men’s laughter quieted before carrying on in that same infuriatingly haughty voice. “Now, we’re all civilized men here—”

“Civilized my ass.” Jensen barely had time to clench his jaw when his head snapped from another blow. More fists smashed into his ribs and a loud crack reverberated through him. It should have hurt, but he was hovering just outside the pain, and idly wondered if they’d finally broken something. 

“—and we don’t actually want to kill you,” Chenkov stepped in so close Jensen could taste the tobacco on his breath, “so why don’t you co–operate with my men, and we can all go home in time for dinner?”

“Really?” Jensen’s brows disappeared in his hairline and scowled at his captor with renewed conviction as he coughed and spat blood on Chenkov’s shiny leather boots. “You think if you ask nicely I’ll spill the beans?”

Chenkov’s smile faltered as his eyes hardened into little black pebbles. 

“Well, if that’s how you want to play it. Don’t say I didn’t offer you a way out.” Chenkov’s voice was conversational, but there was an icy edge to it, and the soldiers shifted. With a dismissive smirk the officer spun on his heels and strode towards the door, stopping to nod at a man Jensen hadn’t noticed until now; he must have come in with Chenkov. Jensen strained to hear the hushed exchange between them but the words were spoken in rushed whispers and Jensen’s ears were still ringing from too many blows to the head. The man glanced in his direction briefly, there was something in the way he looked at Jensen that made him shiver. Whatever it was, it didn’t bode well for him.

The chains above his head rattled as they were pulled taut, turning Jensen’s attention back to his own sorry predicament. The metal cuffs bit into his wrists, already raw and bloody, as Jensen felt himself nearly suspended. Pain and fatigue burned in his shoulder joints and the toes of his boots scratched at the concrete floor for whatever leverage he could get. A warmth radiated against Jensen’s naked back. He froze—his skin tingling from more than the cold—and couldn't suppress the flinch when a gentle hand slid up his spine to grip the nape of his neck. 

He felt the pain in his shoulders before the shift as the hand pushed his head forward, and the man chuckled lightly when Jensen cried out. 

“You really should have just given him what he wanted,” the stranger leaned in close and purred in perfectly accented American English, the warmth of his breath tickling the shell of Jensen’s ear. The man circled around Jensen leisurely, as if taking a stroll in the park, and stopped right before him. Eyes the colour of a clear summer sky stared back at him. “But...maybe it’s a good thing you didn’t because now I get what I want.” 

The fingers on Jensen’s neck tightened and dug into two tender spots just below his hairline. He gasped and the pressure increased until pain unlike anything he’d ever felt erupted behind his eyes, drilling into his skull. It hurt it hurt it hurt oh God it hurt. The pain was shapeless, the kind that spread quickly into every little nook and cranny of the mind until nothing mattered but making it stop. Jensen heard himself scream, felt the inside of his throat rip apart, but there was nothing he could do, nowhere he could escape to. 

“See, pressure points, a torturer’s best friend,” the man crooned; somehow his voice managed to cut through the shrill screams echoing in Jensen’s ears. The grip on his neck loosened abruptly and the absence of pure, unadulterated agony left Jensen boneless. He slumped forward, the pain in his shoulders forgotten as he sagged in his restraints.

Fingers danced along Jensen’s naked torso, down the valley between his shoulder blades, probing against taut muscle until the knots began to loosen. The soft touch stilled sporadically, and every time it did Jensen twitched and sucked in a shuddering breath through gritted teeth as he braced for more nauseating pain. The fingers trailed back and forth for what seemed like forever, until Jensen’s goosebumps had goosebumps, before savagely digging into a soft point just beneath his armpit. 

The pain was sudden and loud, an ear-splitting screech inside his head that frayed his sanity and ripped his lungs to shreds as he mirrored the sound with a real scream. His body arched and bowed as he tried to escape the pain. His hands clenched around the chains, nails digging into his palms and drawing blood. 

When the pressure finally lessened Jensen was sobbing openly. His throat was on fire and the taste of copper sat sharp on his tongue; he must have unwittingly bitten himself. The fingers continued to trace along his torso, leaving behind trails of gooseflesh. Jensen tried to remember the training he’d received to counter torture, mind over body and all that crap, but his desperate attempts were no match for the skilled fingers that were already digging into his flesh once more. 

He screamed, his voice the only outlet for the excrutiating pain flooding his system like liquid fire. His vision grew fuzzy around the edges, black blotches exploding sporadically. Jensen welcomed the darkness, was even desperate for it, but the man with the cold blue eyes had other plans as he plucked at Jensen’s body like a finely tuned instrument. 

Unrelenting pain kept him tethered to cruel consciousness. Jensen was delirious, his stomach a twisting ball of agony as he dry-heaved and retched. Acid burned his throat, but he hardly noticed; all he could focus on was the pain and there was just so much of it. 

Suddenly, the pain stopped. Strong fingers carded through Jensen’s hair and tugged on the short strands, yanking his head back. Crystal blues bore into him, searching. Jensen tried to shut the man out, but even the simple act of shifting his gaze was just too much effort. 

“Do you know who I am?” The man crowded into his personal space, so close that Jensen could taste his breath on his tongue. With the absence of pain, a sliver of anger-fueled defiance returned, and Jensen clenched his jaw and averted his eyes. The torturer’s free hand rose to grip his chin; one finger twitched beneath Jensen’s jaw. Fear pooled in the pit of his stomach and loosened his tongue; he would do anything to avoid more pain. 

“Y-yes…” Jensen’s voice was a hoarse whisper. “You’re the traitor. Collins, Misha Collins.” His words dripped with poison as his gaze trained on the man in front of him. Misha Collins was in his debrief files and he had remembered those piercing blue eyes and that sharp, square jaw. 

“Ah yes, that's what the Americans called me. My real name is...actually it’s not that important." Misha turned to his colleagues and barked in laughter. "Besides, how am I a traitor? I was never American.”

“You know damn well why.” He should have kept his mouth shut, but whatever small amount of pride he still had left wouldn’t allow it. 

“Feisty. I like it,” Misha snickered. “I know I’m supposed to extract information from you, but I’m hoping you’ll hold out for a few days; I really want to have some fun with you.” The man stepped in closer, the hand around Jensen’s chin sliding down to close tightly around his neck. Misha leaned into Jensen—so close the metal clasps of his suspenders dug into Jensen’s chest—and inhaled deeply. Jensen shivered and a pathetic whimper escaped his lips when a hot, wet tongue licked a filthy trail along his jaw. 

Behind them a soldier snorted, and one of them spoke rapidly in a harsh dialect that took Jensen a moment to decipher. Something about a disgusting American disease? Misha turned, his lips curled in a teasing grin as he replied in Russian, “It’s not a disease brother, it’s love.” 

Misha loosened his grip and Jensen gasped like a man drowning as his lungs sucked down air in greedy gulps. He was dizzy from fatigue and hunger and thirst, but all that was forgotten when Misha’s fingers slid between their bodies and popped the button on his pants. 

The scrape of his zipper being undone was deafening. Rough hands yanked down his pants and underwear and the stiff material pooled in a useless heap around his ankles. Jensen’s teeth chattered as fresh fear pumped through him, until even the tips of his fingers and toes were tingling with dread. The grin Misha gave him had too many teeth, and the predatory gleam turned the blue of his eyes into glowing little halos. 

Jensen flinched as prying fingers reach behind him and gripped his butt cheeks firmly, kneading and massaging the muscled globes before pulling them apart. His eyes stung with unshed tears and the chains clattered in violent discord as Jensen yanked and struggled wildly for the first time since his capture. 

“Oh, don’t tell me, you’ve never?” Misha’s eyebrows rose in mock surprise as his cold eyes drank in Jensen’s nakedness; the gaze made him feel even more vulnerable, something Jensen didn’t think possible as he hung naked on a meathook in a roomful of men. Misha’s fingers found their way up Jensen’s back, the touch so very gentle, but Jensen knew what those fingers were capable of and braced himself for— 

The fingers slid back down between the cleft of Jensen’s ass to massage his puckered hole. Jensen’s choked cry bounced off the concrete walls even as his ass involuntarily clenched around the invading digits. 

“It’s going to happen whether you like it or not,” Misha breathed hotly into Jensen’s ear. “You can fight it but I promise you, it’ll hurt a lot worse if you do.” Misha toyed with Jensen’s tender rosebud, fingers teasing the edges of the ring of muscle, threatening to push past it any second without warning. Jensen bit into his bottom lip, his teeth worrying until the coppery tang of blood filled his mouth. 

He glared at Misha in a feeble attempt at defiance, but the look only seemed to feed the hunger in those damn blue eyes. Misha brought two fingers to Jensen’s lips and smirked, “Suck. It’s all the lube you’re going to get, so I’d do a real good job if I were you.” 

Jensen balked at the filth of it all. This couldn’t really be happening. He was trained to withstand physical pain and psychological torture, but this was a whole new level of fucked up he hoped he’d never have to face. He shied away from the fingers, but thought better of it when Misha shrugged his indifference; he really would fuck Jensen dry, and that was a terrifying thought all on its own. 

Jensen parted his lips and darted forward to pull the calloused digits into his mouth. Saliva was a scarce commodity and it took some coaxing before his mouth gave up the precious moisture. Misha’s skin tasted of salt, sweat and gun oil, the mixture of flavours growing faint until there were no traces of it left on his tongue. 

The fingers slipped further into his mouth, wiggling in teasing circles, and the men whistled and called out words Jensen didn’t understand; Rosetta Stone wasn’t exactly big on dirty talk after all. Jensen breathed in deeply through his nose and focused on drenching the fingers toying with his tongue as much as possible, his eyes shut against the jeering crowd and the self-satisfied little smirk on Misha’s face. Without warning Misha slipped his fingers from Jensen’s mouth even as someone kicked off his boots and yanked his pants off the rest of the way. 

Jensen was acutely aware of his nakedness as he hung swinging from the ceiling. He was one giant expose nerve, hypersensitive to even the smallest shift in the air as Misha circled him. Misha’s eyes traced along his body like a physical touch; the filthy swipe of his tongue along his lips and that undisguised gleam in his salacious gaze left Jensen feeling incredibly dirty and self-conscious. He was high strung—tension coiling in his limbs like snakes ready to strike—and when Misha stopped in front him to slot one solid thigh between Jensen’s, hard muscle pushing firmly against his groin, Jensen’s hitched breath tumbled out in a string of soft curses. Misha laughed and reached his two not-so-wet-anymore fingers around to rest firmly against his hole. 

The tips of Misha’s fingers circled the puckered opening once more and Jensen’s already too-tight skin crawled from the caress. Misha’s eyes locked onto him, the piercing gaze holding Jensen captive as much as the chains and the cuffs. When the fingers finally breached the ring of tightly clenched muscle—merciless and without pause—Jensen cried out, his eyes watering from the shock of pain. 

“Relax,” Misha smirked, his breath soft and warm against the shell of Jensen’s ear. He shrugged, “Or don’t.”

“...please…” Jensen whispered brokenly. 

“Come again?” Misha pumped his fingers ever so slightly. 

Jensen hissed as his body clenched down instinctively. “Please...don’t do this…” Jensen’s voice cracked on a sob as he begged, dignity and pride be damned. The fingers lodged in his ass scissored slightly; the pain, though not the worst he’d experienced, was so damn alien that Jensen would trade this for the pressure points in a heartbeat. 

“A little late for that.” Misha pushed his fingers further and gave them a little curl, the pads of his fingertips brushing against a little bundle of nerves. Jensen’s eyes flew wide, his nostrils flaring like a panicked wild animal. 

“P-please just...please don’t.” Jensen shook like a leaf in the wind, his shoulders screaming in pain as he thrashed in vain; between the chains and Misha’s thigh, there was no where for Jensen to escape to. Misha’s fingers stroked into Jensen with calculated precision, the carefully placed taps against his prostate sending little jolts of lightning to his dick until—much to Jensen’s absolute horror—it twitched and stiffened. 

Oh, fuck.

“You beg me to stop, but”—Misha quirked one cocky eyebrow as he looked down at Jensen’s rapidly hardening cock—“your little friend here seems to have other ideas.” 

Jensen keened softly and threw his head back as shame washed over him in waves, burning through him like wild fire. He didn’t want this, but Misha’s fingers were doing things to Jensen he didn’t think possible. He should be hating every second of this, fighting Misha tooth and nail until he lay broken, but this warmth pooling in the pit of his stomach was something Jensen didn’t know how to fight, and that made this a million times worse than the pain. 

When Misha’s fingers finally pulled out of him Jensen groaned softly. The tortured little ring of muscle burned, but the sudden loss of that fullness left him aching. Misha took a step back, his fingers making short work of his button and zipper even as he shrugged out of his suspenders. He pushed his pants down, and Jensen’s gaze trailed down the vee of his hips to the straining hard cock sitting beneath a bed of dark curls. 

He swallowed, what little saliva he had did nothing to soothe the desert in his mouth. Misha licked along the curve of his palm before giving the head of his cock a quick swipe. Jensen whimpered, the pathetic sound eliciting a tiny curve of Misha’s lips as he crowded back into Jensen’s personal space. 

Misha slipped an arm behind Jensen’s left knee, hoisting the leg up until the inside of Jensen’s thigh rested against Misha’s hip. Jensen shivered, Misha’s skin was warm and smooth, the sensation a contradiction to this whole godforsaken place. Misha guided the shaft of his cock with his free hand, the tip—already leaking—pressed against Jensen’s hole like a jagged promise.

“Please, for the love of—”Jensen’s voice choked off in a desperate little sob when the head of Misha’s cock pressed forward, the ridge catching on the edge of Jensen’s hole before slipping in. 

Every nerve in Jensen’s body screamed in protest as his muscle spasmed around the invading thickness. It hurt, it really fucking hurt. Jensen gasped and squeezed his eyes shut, his lungs burning as he tried to breathe through the pain. He needed to relax, this was happening one way or another and Jensen would rather come out of this as unscathed as possible. 

“Look at me,” Misha growled into Jensen’s ear. Jensen opened his mouth to protest, only to choke on unspoken words when Misha’s hips snapped forward to bury the rest of his shaft so deeply Jensen forgot how to scream. “Open those pretty eyes and look at me,” Misha demanded, each word punctuated by a sharp thrust that punched the very air out of Jensen’s lungs. 

He forced his eyes open, the lids heavier than lead. Misha’s stare bore into him, his eyes narrowing as if in concentration when Jensen clenched involuntarily around his cock. Misha stilled, and between the space of two heartbeats something seemed to soften in the set of Misha’s jaw. Jensen clung to that like a lifeline, grateful for the stolen moment of reprieve. The moment passed quickly, and the slight twitch in the hard-set of Misha’s jaw was the only warning Jensen had before Misha’s hips pulled back, only to slam back into him with bone-jarring force. 

Jensen screamed, an almost feral sound filled with shock and despair and such agony. Misha’s fingers dug into the globes of his ass, nails breaking skin as he yanked Jensen in to meet every brutal thrust. Jensen slumped forward and bit into Misha’s shoulder, desperately trying to muffle his cries. Misha stiffened, his hips stuttering out of rhythm for a moment before he found his stride again. Chains clanged noisily as Jensen gripped them, hanging on for dear life even as he willed his body to relax. Every thrust hurt, but it hurt a little less when Jensen finally pinned down his frantic lungs and forced in slow drags of air until panic gave to some semblance of control. 

Somewhere from one breath to the next, the agonizing burning friction lessened, and Misha’s cock slid just a little easier as he bottomed out again and again. Jensen closed his eyes once more and focused on the fatigue in his shoulders and the soreness in his wrists; he could get used to the slide of flesh into him if he could just—

Fireworks exploded behind his eyelids and when he cried out this time, it was in shocked pleasure. Misha leaned back and found Jensen’s wild gaze; there was a glint of mischief in the blue of his eyes as he shifted his hips in just the right way, and the tip of his dick rubbed against that same spot that sent electricity down Jensen’s cock. 

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. Jensen’s stomach tensed, muscles coiling tighter with each measured thrust. 

The room was silent. Jensen was vaguely aware of the soldiers crowded in a circle around them, their eyes trained on his nakedness and the slide of Misha’s cock as it disappeared into him in a blur. Jensen’s sobs and pained cries turned into mewling moans as he gasped with a deep, burning need. He wanted to deny the fire pooling in the pit of his stomach, deny the bursts of blinding light every time Misha brushed against his prostate, the angle so infuriatingly perfect. Jensen wanted to deny that this was even happening to him, but he was rapidly losing the ability to think, and the line between pain and pleasure was so blurred he couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began. 

A particularly filthy moan rolled off his tongue and Jensen bit into his cheek until the salty coppery taste of blood flooded his mouth. Misha chuckled on the end of a laboured exhale and fucked into Jensen harder still. It was a battle of wills and Jensen stood no chance as his cock strained—angry and leaking and so fucking hard—against his clenching stomach. Misha leaned in close, his tongue swiping hot and wet against the shell of his ear as he whispered obscenities that would put the entire porn industry to shame. Jensen keened, his mind putting picture to the dirty threats. And when Misha’s teeth finally sank into the hollow below his jaw, Jensen saw white so blinding he thought he’d go blind. Rope after rope of hot come splashed against his stomach and chest and all over Misha. 

Jensen slumped against Misha and felt the cock in him swelling to stretch him further. Misha jerked against him, his muscles bulging and straining as he shot his release. When he finally pulled back—his cock slipping out with a wet pop—come oozed out of Jensen’s abused ass to drip down his trembling thighs.

Misha wiped his cock on Jensen’s hip before tucking himself back into his pants. He pulled away from Jensen, the globs of spunk a stark contrast against the black material of his shirt. Jensen was bone weary as he hung limp from the chains. His vision blurred as he came in and out of consciousness. Surprisingly gentle fingers gripped his chin and tilted his head back. Warm lips brushed against his chapped ones and Jensen struggled to catch the words murmured against the corner of his mouth.

“Don’t break. I’m not done with you yet.” 

Then all was merciful darkness.


	2. Chapter 2

It was well past midnight when Misha stopped by Jensen’s cell. He wasn’t sure what drew him there; maybe it was the defiant green eyes that wouldn’t leave him alone, occupying his thoughts in a relentless cycle. When the day was finally over, and Misha lay tossing in his bed, all he could think about was the way Jensen’s body had jerked and flushed as he spilled all over his shirt. He pinched the bridge of his nose and took a deep breath, his fingers hesitating on the latch before yanking aside the metal cover and peered through the hatch at the pathetic figure curled up on the cot. 

Misha’s gaze traced along the naked, sleeping form; Jensen’s knees were pulled into his chest with one arm tucked beneath his head, the other cradled in the space between his legs and torso. Something stirred inside him as Misha counted the little thumb-sized bruises on his tanned skin; bruises he’d painted on the canvas that was Jensen’s body. 

Misha worried at his bottom lip as he stared into the dinky little cell, and when Jensen shivered and folded in on himself a bit more, he waved down the guard.

“Unlock the door.” Misha was glad his voice was steady as it echoed down the empty corridor.

“Yes, sir.” The guard turned the key in the lock and the door opened with a soft click. 

“Give me the key”—Misha held out his hand expectantly—”I’ll lock him up myself when I’m done.”

The guard gave up the key without question before leaving Misha alone with the prisoner. He wrinkled his nose as he stepped into the cell; the smell of damp and something musty permeated the stale air. He frowned and made a mental note to track down whoever was responsible for cleaning these cells; nothing like swift and brutal punishment to make sure everybody did their jobs properly. 

Jensen stirred but didn’t wake when Misha stopped next to the cot. The dim light from the corridor spilled in around Misha, casting a shadow over Jensen that made him seem even more fragile. He reached out and shook Jensen’s arm—the touch much too gentle—and the man’s eyes flared open; fear born of primal instincts flashed behind those bloodshot eyes when recognition sank in. 

“Shhh,” Misha shushed the thrashing man with a finger to his lips. 

“What the hell—” Jensen glared at him. “What the fuck do you want?”

Misha steeled himself and straightened up until he was looming over Jensen. “Get up. We need to get you cleaned.” He waited expectantly until Jensen struggled to his feet before grabbing his arm, pointedly ignoring the soft hisses of pain when his fingers dug into bruises. 

Misha’s boots echoed eerily down the corridor as he dragged Jensen along on silent feet. The American stumbled a few times, but he didn’t complain when Misha’s grip tightened to help him stay upright. To an outsider, the compound was an elaborate labyrinth of corridors and dead ends, but this was Misha’s second home, and he knew all the little secrets hidden behind these walls. 

“Is it always so damn cold here?” Jensen’s voice added to the echoing staccato of Misha’s boots. Misha glanced at him and smiled when he caught Jensen rubbing his arms. The American dropped his hands to his sides when he saw Misha looking, his chin jutting in indignant defiance even as his gooseflesh-covered body shivered in the cold. 

“Yes,” Misha replied but offered nothing else. He didn’t need to get to know the man to do what he was about to do; he especially didn’t want to get too friendly in case he needed to kill him. They continued in silence, and just as Jensen looked like he was about to ask another question, they arrived at Misha’s private quarters.

“Get in.” Misha held open the door.

Jensen stepped in and hugged his arms as he looked about the room. It was sparsely furnished. A cot was pushed up against the far concrete wall, and a chest was tucked by the foot of the bed. Against the adjacent wall was a large desk neatly organized with stacks of paper and writing utensils. Suddenly Misha felt embarrassed that his space didn’t have more personality, but he ruthlessly dismissed the silly notion and slammed the door shut. Why should he care that Jensen seemed to be judging him based on his sleeping quarters? 

“Don’t even think about stealing the pens,” Misha groused softly behind Jensen; he smirked in satisfaction when the American jumped. 

“You can read minds too?” Jensen sassed as he turned and scowled at him. The man seemed unperturbed by the knowledge that Misha had killed men for less. 

“You’re not exactly a closed book.” Misha ignored the flash of annoyance in Jensen’s unrepentant glare—maybe he was losing his edge—and led him through a second door to the bathroom.

“You get a room and a shower?” 

“Perks of being captain.” Misha shrugged. “Now go run the shower.”

The words were a command but Misha almost expected more lip from the American. Jensen studied Misha closely, as if contemplating how far he could push before Misha snapped. Maybe it was the twitch in his jaw as he clenched his teeth, or the way his brows furrowed in an unimpressed frown, but whatever it was Jensen must have gotten the message loud and clear. He turned wordlessly and ran the shower. 

Misha went to the chest by the foot of his bed, grabbed two towels, and laid them on the toilet before stripping down. Steam rolled from the spray of hot water to shroud the small bathroom in a mist of warmth. Misha folded his clothes neatly and tucked his boots beneath the sink. A shiver ran down his spine despite the heat. He looked up into the mirror and caught Jensen staring intently at his back, his brows pinched in the faintest of frowns. 

“Are you finished?” he asked flatly. Jensen jumped and turned away and Misha wasn’t sure if he was flushed from the heat or embarrassment. 

“What’s with all the scars?” 

“Trophies. Now get in the shower; this isn’t America, we don’t have hot water to waste.” Misha crowded into Jensen, his hands pushing against Jensen’s back as he urged the man into the shower. Hot water beat down on them in a gentle spray. Misha shivered, his muscles relaxing as he luxuriated in the heat. Jensen, his back still turned, hissed and moaned; the water must be stinging hot on his thoroughly chilled skin. 

The water grew hotter still, until steam thick as fog shrouded them both. Jensen swayed on his feet as if whatever little pressure from the shower head was enough to push him over. Misha reached out and laid his hands on Jensen’s hips to steady him. He took a step forward and pulled Jensen into him until his chest was pressed into the jut of Jensen’s shoulder blades. Jensen was perhaps an inch or two taller, but Misha knew he held all the power. He leaned in and nuzzled against Jensen’s warm skin, his lips catching on the slope of his shoulder, the American tensed, his breath catching on an inhale. 

“Y-you can’t be serious.” Jensen’s voice shook and Misha could almost taste the fear oozing out of him; it was a flavour Misha, and his dick, could get drunk on. 

“Can’t I?” Misha taunted, pressing himself flush against Jensen’s back. His arms circled Jensen’s chest, nimble fingers finding the twin nubs of Jensen’s nipples. Jensen hissed, louder this time, his chest rising and falling with each laboured breath as Misha rolled and tweaked those pert nubs until they stood hard like diamonds. 

Misha hooked his chin over Jensen’s shoulder and ordered, “Hand me the shampoo.” When Jensen didn’t obey right away, Misha scraped a nail over his left nipple. The sound that escaped Jensen was choked and raw, and he quickly bent over to pick up the bottle. 

It wasn’t Misha’s intention to actually take a shower with the prisoner, but he was full of terrible ideas and before he knew it his fingers were buried knuckles deep in soft, brown hair, working up a lather and massaging Jensen’s scalp. Jensen’s shoulders began to loosen under the hot spray of the shower and Misha’s gentle ministrations. Misha gripped his neck and tipped his head, his hair slicking flat against his scalp as water rinsed away the soap. 

“Why?” Jensen turned to face Misha, confusion marring his features. 

“Why what?”

“Why are you being so nice to me?” Jensen’s voice was thick with something Misha couldn’t quite place. He had never considered himself a very nice person, yet the way Jensen sounded, almost hopeful, plucked at something soft and quivering within. 

“Because I like my toys fresh in the morning,” Misha replied cooly, glad his voice didn’t betray the array of confusing thoughts chasing each other in his head. The light—a glint of hope that had lit up the green—faded from Jensen’s eyes, replaced by something flat like plastic. Misha’s chest tightened as he tried to ignore the twist in his gut. 

Jensen’s jaw twitched. He turned around and grabbed the bar of soap, scrubbing at his skin until lathered obscured the galaxy of bruises littered across his body. Misha covered Jensen’s hand in his, slowing the frantic scrubbing until the bar of soap slid lazily across smooth skin. 

He slipped the soap from Jensen’s fingers and began to lather down the slope of one shoulder, then the other, in gentle strokes. He dragged the soap over the jut of Jensen’s shoulder blades and down the valley where his spine sat nestled between two solid cords of muscle. Misha stopped at the hand-shaped bruise on Jensen’s hip with a faint smile at the memory of putting it there; Jensen was wearing his mark, and a wave of possessiveness washed over him like a hurricane. 

His cock stirred with interest as Misha explored further down, slippery fingers sliding over the taut muscle of Jensen’s perfectly round ass to caress the thick, solid muscles of his legs. Jensen had a runner’s physique; he was lean and cut, but there was still a softness around the edges that made him more underwear model and less soldier. 

Misha straightened and gripped Jensen’s shoulder, turning him so he could properly drink him in. Jensen’s collarbones stood proudly, each perfect curve made for biting. His pecs were solid and smooth, and Misha remembered how they rose and fell when Jensen battled for breath as his body clenched in orgasm. His gaze lingered on Jensen’s hips and an unbidden image of his tongue licking along the vee arose. Misha’s next inhale caught in his throat. 

Jensen’s weight shifted from one foot to the other, a nervous dance under Misha’s scrutiny. His skin was flushed from head to toe, and when Misha dragged a hand lazily across the head of his cock, it twitched in interest and began to fill.

Misha’s gaze shifted from Jensen’s hardening cock to his face, where shock, disgust, and arousal played a game of tag behind wide eyes. Jensen’s blush deepened, the pretty tint of pink darkening the freckles littered across the bridge of his nose like constellations.

“And here I thought I had taken you against your will.” Misha’s voice echoed around the small bathroom.

“What the fuck? You raped me,” Jensen replied curtly. 

“I don’t like the word rape. I prefer…‘sex without permission.’” Misha pointed at the curved erection straining against Jensen’s stomach. “Also, I didn’t think one could rape the willing.” 

“I...I was _not_ willing,” Jensen bit back angrily.

“But you are now?” 

A million reactions flashed across those defiant green eyes. The pinched brows and the hard set of his jaw were a contradiction to his hard cock. Misha had wanted to tease the American a little, goad him into doing something stupid so he could pin him down and have a little fun in the name of punishment, but what Misha did not expect was this exposed nerve of a man standing before him. His confusion—undisguised and completely honest—mirrored the plum pudding of feelings stirring inside Misha’s head. What was it about Jensen that intrigued him so? Misha squeezed his eyes shut and took a deep breath, but the pulsing of his straining dick was impossible to ignore.

Causing Jensen pain had been enjoyable; watching the man squirm and writhe on the end of his cock had given Misha the same heady rush as when he pulled his prisoners apart one piece at a time. Jensen’s defiance had been intoxicating, his reluctant surrender sweet like honey, but the desire to see Jensen pliant and soft—begging beneath his fingertips—left Misha wanting. It was something he never dared to want from anyone; men in his line of work couldn’t afford that kind of attachment. 

“Get on your knees,” Misha growled. His tone was harsher than he intended, but it was better this way.

When Jensen didn’t move, only glared at him with fists clenched, Misha saw red. Anger washed over him like a cleansing rain, purging unwanted sentiments. “I said. Get. On. Your. Knees.” 

“And if I don’t?” 

Misha’s hand flashed out, fingers gripping Jensen’s neck in a crushing vice and shoving him back. Jensen’s head cracked against the tile with a wet thud, his face contorted in shock, fear, and pain. Barely controlled rage settled in the pit of Misha’s stomach like blue fire; it was the kind of fury he thrived on, the kind that shut his brain off so he could be a man who threatened and hurt without remorse. “Do you really want to find out what I’d do to you if you defied me?” Misha questioned with narrowed eyes.

“Maybe I do.” The fear and shock on Jensen’s face bled into hatred. Misha’s face split into a Cheshire smile. Hate was the toxic lover Misha could never leave; it grounded him and put him back in his element. 

“Either you get on your knees willingly, or I break your kneecaps,” Misha said lightly, “and when I’m done with you, I’ll throw you to the men. They won’t give a damn that you’re a man. To them you’ll just be a warm hole to get their dicks wet”—Misha grinned as muscles shifted beneath his palm—”and when they’re done with you, you’ll wish you were dead.” 

Misha stared into Jensen’s eyes, unblinking, and for a second it looked like he might have to make good on his threat. Jensen was tense as a coiled spring, but he looked away first, his eyes downcast in submission. It wasn’t the yielding Misha had wanted, but this was easier; there were less troublesome feelings involved this way. 

Jensen’s knees bent, but it was the stubborn set of his shoulders as he dropped to the hard porcelain tub that had Misha dizzy with need. Jensen looked up, green eyes flashing beneath thick, wet lashes, and there was the same look of defiance that had Misha’s blood boiling. 

One small, unsteady step closed the gap between them. Misha’s cock twitched impatiently, a pearl of pre-come pooling and rolling from the slit. “Come here.” Misha’s fingers gripped Jensen’s hair, pulling his face close until the tip of his cock rested against plump lips. 

When Jensen’s lips closed around him—all wet heat and hesitant tongue—Misha lost the ability to think. He cradled Jensen’s head in both hands and eased his cock into Jensen’s mouth inch by agonising inch, and when Jensen coughed and gagged Misha pushed his head back, the change in angle just enough to push past Jensen’s gag reflex and down his throat. 

Fuck. Jensen’s throat was like velvet, and when he tried to swallow around the thickness lodged there, Misha’s knees turned to water. He stopped to catch his breath, and Jensen swallowed again, more deliberate this time. Misha tilted his head back and water beat down on his brow as his eyes slid closed. Jensen’s mouth was wet, his tongue explorative, and even the occasional nick of teeth couldn’t take away just how good it felt. 

Misha pulled back slightly, just enough that the head of his cock rested on Jensen’s tongue. The man gasped and sucked in air like he was drowning, trying to fill his lungs before the window closed. Misha groaned, low and filthy, and fucked into Jensen’s waiting throat in long, unhurried thrusts. Desperate fingers dug into Misha’s hips as if hanging on for dear life. He allowed it this time, but made a note to let Jensen know that next time they did this, he was to keep his hands to himself. 

Blunt fingernails dug in painfully as Misha increased the tempo, his hips snapping forward with force. The pain was a welcome distraction; Misha didn’t want this to end until he’d properly put Jensen in his place. Soft moans punctuated by the desperate drag of breath echoed around the room. Misha’s head lolled to the side and he glanced down at the man kneeling in front of him. Jensen’s lashes were clumped with moisture as they fanned out against lovely pink cheeks. His lips—swollen and glistening with water and spit—were the prettiest shade of red, stretched obscenely around Misha’s dick. 

Everything about this was so fucking gorgeous it stole the very breath from Misha’s lungs. 

“Open your eyes,” Misha gritted on the tail end of an exhale. 

Jensen complied without hesitation and he blinked into the spray of the shower. There was a trace of loathing swimming in those beautiful green eyes; the intensity fueled the pool of need swirling low in Misha’s stomach. 

Misha’s grip tightened as he yanked Jensen’s head forward and held it there, his hips stuttered, losing their rhythm until they stopped moving altogether. Light exploded behind his eyes as his orgasm ripped through him and down Jensen’s throat. Jensen’s eye widened in shock, his hands balled into fists as he thrashed, but Misha held him in place, fingers digging into his scalp and hips moving in jerky little thrusts until his orgasm subsided. 

When his vision came back into focus Misha took a shuddering breath and let his head flop forward to study the man whose lips were still wrapped around his softening dick. Come dribbled from the corner of his mouth, mixing with hot water to drip down his chin. His cheeks were flushed as he glared up at Misha with undisguised hatred. God, Jensen was so beautifully strong-willed, a wild stallion, and Misha couldn’t wait for the day he finally broke him from the inside out. 

They stayed like that until the water washed away all traces of Misha from Jensen’s skin. Misha stepped out of the tub first and dried himself quickly before handing the second towel to Jensen.

“Dry yourself, then join me for dinner.”


	3. Chapter 3

The chains rattled, but the noise barely registered as the pressure in his shoulders eased. Jensen sagged forward, sucking down air like he was drowning as his shackled wrists slipped from the hook. They had him strung up longer than usual, and it had taken every ounce of strength he had to keep himself from suffocating.

If Misha hadn’t been feeding him every night…Jensen shook his head and squashed the unwelcome wisps of gratitude. Misha wasn’t doing him any favours; whatever he did, he did it so he could keep his play-thing fresh.

Jensen wasn’t bothered by his constant state of nakedness anymore, but Misha’s scrutiny still managed to strip him further. He shrunk under the calculated stare—knowing exactly what the dark, stormy look behind those blue eyes meant—and tried to ignore the acid burn of fear pooling in the pit of his stomach. He swallowed, his mouth dry, and stared at his feet while focusing on the constant thrum of pain instead.

The circular wounds around his wrists were ripped open again, with patches of missing skin where the cuffs had pulled too tight, and his body was littered with bruises in varying shades of green, yellow, and purple. Jensen had long stopped looking at them; he didn’t need the visuals to reinforce just how battered he felt. Jensen was just grateful that at least he wasn’t missing any limbs or bleeding like a gutted pig.

Misha said nothing as they dragged him out of the interrogation room, but Jensen felt the stinging heat of his lingering gaze until the door shut behind him. All he wanted was a few hours of shut-eye, a chance to escape into a few blissful moments of darkness as his body tried to heal before nightfall.

 

***

The lock on his cell clicked open like a whispered secret, and light chased away the darkness behind his eyelids. Jensen didn’t need to open his eyes to know who was standing in the doorway. An impatient shuffle of booted feet was all the urging he needed to roll off the cot and blink into the dim light.

“Good morning, sunshine,” Misha teased dryly as he set off down the corridor.

“Bite me.” Jensen dug the heels of his palms into his eyes. Misha turned and cocked an eyebrow at him but didn’t respond, leaving Jensen with the feeling that Misha very well might sink his teeth into him later. Jensen jogged to catch up, not that he needed to follow Misha to know where he was going; what used to be a series of complicated turns had become familiar over the past few days.

Misha held the door as Jensen slipped inside, his eyes zeroing in on a tiny clay pot on the table. A small, prickly looking cactus sat snug in the dark soil. _That wasn’t there before._

“Is that thing real?” Jensen marched over to the plant and tested his fingers on the spines, hissing when a bead of blood pooled on his fingertips. Misha squared his shoulders and growled, leveling a glared at Jensen, who swallowed hard before heading for the bathroom to run the shower. Misha would join him shortly—naked and carrying two towels—just like he had done every night since the first time they showered together.

The hot water warmed his skin, beating down on him to wash away sweat and blood. Jensen couldn’t help the soft moan as Misha’s fingers dug into his scalp, long digits working up a lather and squeezing until all the tension in his neck rolled along his skin to flow down the drain, leaving Jensen hopelessly relaxed. Those strong fingers worked their way down his neck, along the slant of his shoulders to knead into the pebbles of knotted muscle in his shoulders. Jensen groaned in pained pleasure and felt his flesh turn into putty beneath Misha’s skillful ministrations.

They didn’t talk apart from Misha’s demands for the soap and Jensen’s occasional grunt when Misha’s fingers prodded against a particularly nasty bruise. He basked in the silence, his mind wandering as he shed his armour.

Misha’s hands against his shoulders were insistent but gentle, and Jensen swayed as he dropped to his knees. The taste of Misha’s cock was no longer foreign, the weight of his erection a familiar heaviness on his tongue. Jensen’s eyes fluttered closed, his hands gripping his wrists behind his back as he settled into the tug and slide of his lips against velvet flesh. Misha’s cock throbbed and swelled, and a whispered curse was all the warning Jensen had before come rushed down his throat, each spurt punctuated by a satisfied grunt and a spasm of strong fingers tugging on his hair. He swallowed and sat back on his haunches as Misha’s softening cock slipped from his mouth, giving his bruised knees a much-needed reprieve from the hard porcelain tub.

Misha stepped out of the tub and left Jensen to delight under the hot shower undisturbed. Jensen balled his fists on his thighs and tilted his head back, feeling the bounce of each droplet against his skin in a symphony of pitter-patter melodies. He stayed under the shower until his fingertips turned to prunes, then shut off the water and rubbed the thick towel along every last inch of himself, savoring every second he was allowed to spend in comfortable solitude.

Misha was seated in the only chair—his towel wrapped around his waist—with bread, cheese, and, sweet Jesus, fresh fruit already spread out on the desk. Jensen’s fingers slipped beneath fluffy cotton to unravel the towel sitting low around his own hips, but Misha shook his head and beckoned Jensen to take his place by his feet.

“It’s warm in here.” Jensen settled back on his haunches and waited. Little pieces of bread and cheese appeared before his lips. He leaned forward to take the offered morsels without question, and almost allowed himself to enjoy the mindless nature of the task. Misha was never going to let him sit at the table, and he was not so stupid as to give Jensen a fork and a knife. Being forced to kneel at Misha’s feet had made logistical sense to him, but Jensen never expected to actually enjoy being hand-fed.

“I turned up the heat,” Misha groused and pressed a grape against Jensen’s lips. “It gets cold at night, especially when we’re sitting around eating dinner half naked.”

Jensen pulled the grape into his mouth and hid his smile as he chewed. Misha wasn’t a man of many words, and Jensen was content to let the silence settle around him like a heavy blanket. It was a rare moment when he was warm, clean, and full, and he wasn’t going to ruin that by asking too many questions. They finished eating all too soon, and when Jensen got up to clear away the dishes, he was only too aware of Misha’s eyes following his every move.

He knew what was coming, if the past few nights were anything to go by, and winced inwardly as his ass cheeks clenched around his abused hole. If Misha wanted to fuck him, there wasn’t much Jensen could do to stop him, but that didn’t make the promise of pain any easier to bear.

Misha crawled into bed—his towel a forgotten heap of soft cotton on the concrete floor—and curled a finger at Jensen. “C’mere.”

Jensen looked down at the table and worried at his bottom lip, rolling the flesh between his teeth as he pretended to not hear Misha’s words. He stacked the dirty plates neatly and tried to dust the crumbs off the table with his hand. There was a familiar rumbling growl, and when Jensen finally looked over to the bed Misha was already stalking toward him, his teeth bared and his eyes narrowed with displeasure.

Strong fingers dug into his arms. Misha yanked Jensen close—their noses a hair’s breadth apart—and stared at him until Jensen shrunk from the piercing gaze. Misha smirked, the twist of his lips a brazen show of his power as he threw Jensen onto the bed. The frame squeaked and shifted, and Jensen barely got his elbows under him before Misha was on top of him, pinning him down.

One large hand pressed against Jensen’s chest, fingers rubbing against hypersensitive skin. Jensen held his breath, his eyes never leaving Misha’s as he tried to anticipate Misha’s next move. The fingers traced around one nipple, then the other, and when they moved up the side of Jensen’s ribs, he squeezed his eyes shut and waited for the digits to dig under his armpit.

Except the pain never came, and as Misha’s fingers glided along his skin, they became more and more gentle. Misha pulled back, his expression unreadable, and flipped Jensen onto his stomach as if he weighed nothing. Jensen buried his face into the pillow, his cheeks burning with shame as Misha manhandled him.

This was it, he was going to get fucked. Jensen just hoped maybe Misha could spare him an extra squirt of lube before shoving in. He braced against the mattress, his fingers digging into the rough, cotton sheets, and held his breath as he waited for the familiar (yet still alien) feeling of fingers prying his butt cheeks apart.

Warm breath—soft as feathers—tickled his neck as soft lips danced along his spine. Butterfly kisses peppered along every inch of skin until Misha’s lips stopped at the small of his back. Misha straddled him there, and calloused fingertips resumed their quest as they traveled back up along Jensen’s spine.

There was no pain, no discomfort, only a soothing glide of skin against skin that left Jensen confused as hell. He wanted to look into Misha’s eyes, to find a map to navigate these uncharted waters, but Misha’s fingers were working incredible magic, disappearing the tension from his knotted muscles until Jensen was a boneless heap. He shivered despite the ambient temperature, and Misha leaned down to cover his body with his own—a solid, grounding warmth. Jensen shifted his hips and bit back a soft moan when Misha’s cock stirred against him. Misha’s hands were everywhere, and his cock stiffened gradually with every explorative touch until Jensen couldn’t ignore the heavy thickness leaking against his back.

Fingers danced up his side to tap against Jensen’s jaw, and when he turned to the touch, Misha’s fingers slid beneath his cheek to tilt his head back for a soft, lingering kiss. Jensen blinked, his body tensing for the span of a heartbeat before melting back into the hard mattress as Misha’s lips traced from one corner of his mouth to the other. Strong hands gripped Jensen’s shoulder and rolled him onto his back—the kiss unbroken—and before Jensen could collect his wits about him, Misha was pressed right back on top of him, one knee slotted between the vee of his thighs as he continued to breathe opened mouthed kisses along Jensen’s lips.

It was difficult not to succumb to the gentle caresses, and Jensen reached out with both hands as he clung to Misha’s tenderness. His tongue was soft as he lapped at the seam of Jensen’s lips; with each teasing swipe Jensen was that much closer to laying himself bare to the man that had shown him so much pain. But there was no pain in what Misha was doing now, no threats, no demands, only the sweetness of his tongue and his tickling breath against Jensen’s skin.

His mouth moved on their own, his lips parting just enough to allow a slip of his tongue to catch Misha’s wandering lips. Misha’s cock twitched against his own rapidly hardening erection, and Jensen could only lay there—nails digging into strong arms—as Misha finally swiped his tongue along the inside of Jensen’s mouth.

Jensen was lost in the heat of the body pressing into him, lost in the stroke of gentle fingers along his jaw and neck, lost in the taste of grapes and rye bread and sharp cheddar as Misha licked into his mouth again and again. It was as if time was a ferris wheel, and they were at the apex of the ride with the lights of the world beneath them and the glint of the stars winking at them from above. Jensen forced his eyes open and counted the lashes fanned out against Misha’s flushed cheeks. The usual harshness was gone from the clench of Misha’s sharp jaw, replaced by something Jensen didn’t dare dwell on.

Instead, his attention wandered as his body took on a mind of its own, his hips grinding in shy little circles as his cock sought whatever friction it could against the slide of Misha’s skin. Jensen closed his eyes and sank deeper into the languid kisses; he was warm and full and more relaxed than he’d been in a long time. He wanted to simply bask in this moment, no matter how fleeting it was.

It felt good to be kissed like this, unhurried and undemanding. There were no expectations in the strokes of Misha’s tongue, and Jensen couldn’t remember the last time he’d kissed anyone this way. Long-term relationships were a luxury a man in his profession couldn’t afford—not that there was anyone he wanted to settle down with—and one night stands and bathroom quickies weren’t exactly great for lounging around and kissing just for the hell of it.

He liked it, and silenced the nasty little voice in the back of his head reminding him of all the horrible things Misha had done to him since he was captured. This was his moment to languish in, his balm to sooth the scab that got picked apart day in and day out until he was bleeding on the inside as much as he was on the outside. Misha’s hips stuttered, and Jensen gasped as dry heat wrapped around his aching cock. Misha’s dick was slick against his own—they were both leaking profusely—and the vice grip of Misha’s fist around them squeezed the air from Jensen’s lungs.

It didn’t take long for Jensen’s stomach to clench as he tipped over the razor sharp edge of release, and Misha followed shortly, Jensen’s name a whispered breath against his sweat-slicked skin. He tried to keep his eyes focused on the mop of unruly hair tickling his nose, but he was warm, and his body was a bowl of Jell-O as he simply laid there, basking in the glow of his orgasm. Misha cleaned them both with a towel before crawling back in behind Jensen and pulling the blankets over them.

Maybe he’ll close his eyes and rest for just a moment.


	4. Chapter 4

“Get up.”

Jensen ignored the guard and turned his back to the door. The edges of the thin, tattered mattress curled up as he shifted, but his quest for a more comfortable position was cut short when rough hands gripped his arm and yanked him off the cot. The guard gave him a dirty look, and his grip tightened as he dragged Jensen out into the dimly lit corridor.

Time held no meaning in this place, only torture, humiliation, and—much to Jensen’s confusion—Misha’s inexplicably gentle care each night. Misha’s room was no five-star hotel, but a clean shower, food, and water were more than Jensen could have hoped for, even if he knew they didn’t come for free. Between Misha’s threats and bruising grip, there were moments of tenderness that left Jensen confused and irritable, and—worst of all— _wanting_.  

Soft, lingering kisses and gentle caresses that left Jensen’s skin tingling and his cock aching. Patient fingers—slathered in lube—had worked him open in lazy strokes before Misha’s cock slid into him. Even the sex (rape, Jensen reminded himself not for the first time) had been gentle sometimes, infuriatingly so until he gasped and begged for Misha to go faster, harder.

He was never into men, never even thought of sticking a finger up his ass while rubbing one out, but his cock stirred at the memory of Misha’s hand around his throat as he fucked into him. He shook his head—horrified—and pushed the mental images away; the last thing he needed was for these sick fucks to think he was getting off on being a punching bag.

Cold metal clamped around his wrists and his shoulders protested as his arms stretched overhead, the cuffs settling onto the meat hook. Jensen’s fingers closed around the chain and he gritted his teeth, preparing himself for the hurricane of blows—the first few always hurt the worst.

Misha would join them later, as he had been every day since their first encounter. Some days Chenkov showed up to spectate, those days Misha would make Jensen scream the loudest, made the jagged pain inescapable until he was a sobbing, quivering mess. Even then Misha never made him bleed, never did anything that would leave Jensen permanently damaged, at least not physically.

The morning wore on; soldiers came and went, some lingered and taunted him as they all took turns playing Punch-The-American. It wasn’t until he came to a second time, teeth chattering from the ice-cold water they’d used to revive him, that Jensen spotted a man with cruel eyes and a crueler smile watching him from a corner of the room. He was leaning against the wall, his shoulders relaxed, and a whip held loosely in his hand.

So they were done playing nice.

The chains rattled and pulled until his toes lifted off the cold, concrete floor. Someone shoved a strip of leather between his teeth and muttered something he didn’t quite catch as he swayed gently. The man with the whip pushed off the wall and sauntered toward him, the thong unfurling until it sat in an elegant curve on the floor. The braided leather gleamed like a patient snake biding its time, waiting for the right moment to strike. The man bared his teeth in a nasty grin, his tongue gliding over slightly yellowed teeth as he moved out of sight.

Jensen bit into the leather, the musty taste of something earthy and slightly rancid lingered on his tongue. A movement in his peripherals distracted him, and Jensen missed the hiss of leather until it was too late. The first bite of the snake was excruciating; pain as white as snow and as hot as the sun exploded in his back as the whip cracked against his skin.

The popper fell beneath him, and Jensen could only stare at the blood—his blood—on the tassel, painting the concrete in a small smear of red as it was yanked off the floor. He didn’t miss the high-pitched whistle this time as the whip bit into his lower back, and he flinched from the crack of the whip as much as the pain.

Beads of sweat broke out over his pinched brows, dripping into his eyes and mingling with unshed tears. His nails dug into his palms as he swung with every twitch of muscle, bracing against the stinging pain as lash after lash carved into him. It was hard to breathe, and with every scream he swallowed, the lashes seemed to land harder and cut deeper until Jensen was delirious.

The first scream saw the leather fall from his dry lips, and it was all he could do to keep from biting his tongue as merciless leather caressed every inch of him with cruel indifference.

The door slammed opened, and loud voices cut through the agony. Jensen sagged, his chin tucked against his heaving chest. He didn’t understand the rapid fire of words, didn’t even try; all that mattered was that the whipping had stopped.

The sound of a fist cracking against flesh and bone echoed and Jensen flinched and braced for the pain. But it never came. He blinked against the harsh light and swept his gaze around the room, relief pooling in his gut when he realised he wasn’t the one getting punched. Comprehension filtered through the fog and Jensen’s chest swelled at the familiar voice; it was Misha, Misha was here to save him.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” Misha’s eyes burned as he stared down at the man holding the whip. His fist shook against his thigh, and the knuckles were red and as angry as Misha looked.

“I was following orders.” The soldier rubbed his jaw; it was already beginning to swell.

“Address me properly, soldier, or I will have you disgraced.” Cold blue eyes bore into the man. They stared at each other, gazes grappling for dominance, but the soldier looked away as he pushed himself to his feet and stared straight ahead.

“I was following orders, _sir_.”

“And whose orders were those?”

“Lieutenant General Chenkov's,” he replied and added quickly, “sir.”

“Tell the lieutenant general that I will have what he needs by tomorrow,” Misha gritted. “Also, I would appreciate it if he did not interfere with my methods.”

“But sir…”

“He’s the last one; we need him to talk.”

The soldier nodded and gave a curt salute before stomping out the door. The rest of the men shifted, their eyes were either darting around the room or downcast, avoiding Misha’s piercing, icy stare.

“Get him down, then you’re all dismissed.” Misha clenched and unclenched his fists as he watched Jensen’s trembling form lowered unceremoniously to the ground. Jensen gasped and tried to look up, but his head was too heavy, his vision blurring. Instead, he blinked and focused on the gleam of leather boots around him and fought off the beckoning of unconsciousness.

Feet shuffled around him until only one pair of boots remained. Jensen pushed himself up and teetered gingerly on his left hip. His backside was a sea of flames, and Jensen tried not to think about the sticky peel of his skin against the floor.

“What...did you mean?”

Misha shifted at the unexpected question. “What?”

“What you said earlier”—Jensen tipped his head back and glared at Misha—“that I’m the last one, what did you mean?”

“That’s none of your concern.” Misha’s voice was flat, but Jensen didn’t miss the twitch of muscle as Misha’s jaw clenched.

“It is my goddamn concern!” Jensen yelled, the sound startling them both. Jensen knew the risks, understood the parameters of this mission, but the reality of it stung like a hornet, and there was nothing in his training that could prepare him for the stab of pain in his chest. “They’re my men.”

Misha regarded him with that same hard, flat look, his jaw shifting like something was crawling beneath the skin. Jensen waited, his breath lodged in his throat. “We caught two others. You’re the only one left.”

Grief and anger punched into him, ripping a hole right through him and for a second, Jensen forgot about the searing pain radiating from his back. “Why?”

***

That was the million-dollar-question, one Misha asked himself more than once as he inevitably ended up at Jensen’s cell every night.

“Why what?” he stalled.

“Why do you keep me alive? Toy with me?” Jensen demanded, his voice drawn tight as tears reflected the accusatory glint in the green of his eyes. “Why do you feed me every night, clean me like some fucking pet. Do you get off on that like some sick pervert? Do you think it’ll make me trust you? Is this your _method_?”

Misha didn’t answer. He didn’t have one, at least not an answer that satisfied his own conscience. He stood rooted to the ground, trapped by Jensen’s pointed stare, the disdain and hurt raking at his skin like claws.

The first night Misha had acted on impulse; Jensen was something new, and he had needed the release. The next day he had no qualms pushing Jensen’s limits while the man hung dangling from the meat hook. His screams fueled the resistance in his eyes, and that glint fired Misha’s blood. It was with that flame burning through his veins that Misha had gone back to Jensen’s cell that night. But it was the way Jensen melted under his fingertips—a desperate need to find solace in even the gentlest touch—that left him yearning for something a little more tender and a whole lot more terrifying.

Jensen’s voice echoed like thunder, the sound petering out into silence. It fell around them like dust, suffocating. Misha clenched his jaw, and the grind of his teeth stuttered in his ears. He felt himself wanting to explain, to vomit excuses just so Jensen would stop looking at him like Misha had hurt and betrayed him in some way. It was Misha’s job to hurt, and anger flared at this ridiculous need to justify his actions to a mere prisoner.

“On your knees.” He’d been too soft, too gentle. Deep down he knew he wanted to give Jensen all the tenderness he needed, even if he was loathed to admit it. Misha needed the confusion to go away, needed to reassure himself that he was still the master of his own emotions.

"Fuck you." Jensen glared through unshed tears.

The defiance didn’t stir Misha’s blood like it normally did, but he didn’t care; a part of him didn’t even want to enjoy this, and that it was a thought Misha didn’t dare dwell on. Instead, he closed the gap between them and let the waves of Jensen’s hatred wash over him.

Misha grabbed Jensen by the hair—it had lost its post-shampoo luster—and yanked him onto his knees. Jensen winced as his neck bent at a painful angle and a single tear rolled down his cheek. Misha steeled himself against it.

“Open.”

Jensen shook his head.

“Open. Your. Fucking. Mouth.”

The familiar touch of anger fueled Misha’s resolve. He wasn’t enjoying this—it felt wrong in every sense of the word—but he wasn’t there to enjoy himself. It was time he put _himself_ back in his place. Misha’s grip tightened, his knuckles white with tension, and held Jensen locked in place as he pushed his pants down his hips. His cock was soft when he wrapped his hand around it, and an image of Jensen spread out on his bed—looking wrecked and flushed—aided him in stroking his dick to hardness.  

Something flashed behind angry green eyes, and Misha thought he saw the faintest glimmer of desire there. Jensen closed his eyes before Misha could get a good look, but the tiny inkling that he might actually still want this, despite everything, gave Misha that last little push as his cock swelled to full-mast.

“Bite me”—Misha pinched Jensen’s nose shut—“and I’ll cut off your balls.”

Jensen balled his fists on his thighs as he held his breath, unwilling to surrender without a fight. Desire began to pool in the pit of Misha’s stomach, and he was reminded of his undeniable attraction to Jensen since that first night: the wild stallion still had spirit, and for the first time Misha entertained the idea that maybe he’d never fully tame him.

The thought sent a jolt of lightning down his spine.

Jensen parting his lips was inevitable, and when he did, Misha jammed his cock in his mouth and hissed in pain when the shaft caught teeth. Misha pulled back and released Jensen’s nose, and before the man could pull in a full breath, his hips snapped forward, burying his cock down Jensen’s throat in one swift thrust.

It was that same sweet mouth, same rush of heat, and those same smooth muscles that clutched at him. But this was different somehow, different in a way Misha couldn’t put into words.

Misha cradled Jensen’s head in both hands, and with a deep, shuddering breath, began thrusting in long, punishing strokes that made Jensen’s eyes water. The heat was overwhelming, and each time Jensen swallowed his throat massaged Misha’s dick in that delicious way he’d come to love. Misha couldn’t keep it up for long; his thrusts were too frantic and his need too desperate. Jensen’s pained whimpers dampened the flames burning through him, but the familiar drag of his tongue and the sight of his cherry-red lips wrapped around Misha’s cock was still breathtaking.

Yet it was the way Jensen’s eyes glazed over, the way they did when they were back in Misha’s room, when he offered his mouth without hesitation, that tipped the scale.

Misha’s hips stuttered, losing their rhythm as white light exploded from within and threatened to burst right through his skin. He was coming in spurts, his thighs quivering as he struggled to hold himself up while Jensen’s throat milked every last drop of his release from his aching dick. It was only after he’d finally caught his breath—his softening cock slipping from Jensen’s swollen lips—that Misha noticed Jensen’s bound hands gripping his left thigh; the touch didn’t bother him this time.

Misha’s chest swelled when not even a single drop of come escaped Jensen’s lips. He squashed the feeling like an irritating insect and jerked his pants back up. He strung Jensen back onto the hook, leaving plenty of slack in the chains, and left the room without a backward glance.

He spent that night alone, in his room, and tried to ignore the Jensen-shaped dip in the mattress next to him.

***

The next day came way too soon.

The guard threw open the cell door, and the grind of metal against concrete set Jensen’s skin crawling. He hurt all over and hissed when his scabs stuck to the mattress, ripping and leaking blood as he staggered after the soldier down the hall. Today was the day; he knew it, could feel it in his bones.

He was surprised to find the room already full of spectators, with Chenkov seated among them. The man regarded Jensen with a greasy smugness that turned his insides into ice. Misha stood to the side with his hands behind his back, staring straight ahead. He didn’t so much as flick his gaze in Jensen’s direction as shackles clicked shut around his wrists.

There were no taunts and obscenities thrown his way; no fists rained down on him, only Misha’s skillful fingers—fingers that had touched every inch of him, inside and out—digging into tender flesh, honing in on pressure points Jensen didn’t know he had. This was a kind of pain he could never grow accustomed to, could never prepare for, and when Misha’s fingers renewed old bruises with savage efficiency, Jensen screamed like his sanity depended on it.

It hurt so, so bad. He knew how to make it stop, to put a permanent end to the agony, but Jensen needed to hold on for just a little longer, needed to make them believe that he had truly broken.

Chenkov barked an order in harsh Russian, and Misha stepped away, leaving Jensen to hang bonelessly from the hook in the ceiling. Jensen closed his eyes and breathed through his nose, trying to regain some semblance of control. The chains rattled above him; Jensen tightened his grip around the cool metal links to stop the shaking in his hands.

Voices murmured around him, the words spoken too quickly and too softly for Jensen to pick up. He turned and searched the room with half-lidded eyes, and couldn’t help the surge of warmth in his chest when his gaze landed on Misha. Chenkov was glaring at Misha, his lips moving in rapid movements. Misha’s eyes were hard, his jaw clenched so tight Jensen imagined he could  hear his teeth grinding. He almost looked like he was uncomfortable; whatever Chenkov was saying must be really fucking awful. _Well, isn’t that just peachy?_

Whatever unsavoury thing Chenkov wanted, Misha eventually caved. He was a loyal man, a good soldier, and despite the gentleness and care he’d shown Jensen the past few days, Misha would do whatever was required of him for the good of his country. Misha was doing what he had to. He didn’t really want to hurt him. Jensen had to hang onto that belief, had to find something to anchor himself if he wanted to survive.

Strong hands gripped his arms and yanked him off the hook. Misha stepped up to him, staring straight down as he stuck the key into Jensen’s cuffs and twisted with force. Jensen ducked and searched Misha’s face for even the smallest trace of compassion, but there was nothing in those blue eyes. The cuffs clattered to the floor, and Jensen was slammed backwards onto the wooden table before the clang of metal settled.

A dirty rag landed on his face, and he could just make out the honeycomb of diffused light from the naked light bulb hanging above him. He took a quick breath—the smell of mildew making him gag—and had just enough time to steel himself before ice water, jagged and paralyzing, hit him in the face. The waterlogged rag molded to his mouth and nose, cutting off his next breath. He gasped, his lips parting by accident, and the vacuum of his open mouth sucked the rag against his tongue. Water poured down his throat, and his lungs burned with fire. Jensen bucked and twisted, every fear-fueled instinct screamed for him to break free, to draw life-giving oxygen into his lungs because he wanted to _live,_ goddammit. More fingers dug into his arms and legs as he writhed, his body twitching, muscles spasming as he started to lose consciousness.

The stream of water stopped abruptly. Jensen gasped and coughed, his body curving like a bow as his lungs fought to expel all that water. The cloth hung wet and limp on his face, dripping icy cold water into his ears and down his neck. His teeth chattered, drowning out the roar in his ears. The cold stung like a too-hot flame, and panic seized him again when water sloshed from the bucket held over his head.

There was a pause. Jensen cracked open an eye and peered through the wet towel. A figure loomed over him, and Misha’s pleading cut through his spluttering. “Just give him what he wants.”

Jensen shook his head; he was too busy frantically sucking down air to spare words. Misha stared hard at him, but all Jensen could make out were the blue of his eyes before Misha pulled back. The bucket reappeared, sending every nerve into overdrive. Jensen bucked and arched his back, barely feeling blunt nails dig into his biceps as he fought to break free. A violent torrent of water plugged his mouth and nose and Jensen’s vision grew fuzzy around the edges. He stopped struggling as black blotches spread like ink in front of his eyes.

He was slipping, and a part of him welcomed eternal nothingness with open arms. It wouldn’t take much, all Jensen had to do was give into darkness and he would slip away quietly while his body shut down. But the water stopped again before the dark could lay its claim, and the receding black blotches resolved into Misha’s silhouette.

“Just tell him.” Misha stood close—his body radiating like the sun against Jensen’s icy skin—and his warm lips brushed against Jensen’s ear. “...please…”

Jensen coughed and gasped as his body convulsed like the demons of his soul were being exorcised. His mind cleared as he spluttered water down his chin. This was the moment he was waiting for.

When the words finally tumbled out of his mouth, they were a garbled mess punctuated by whimpering sobs, but somehow he managed to string the right words in the right order. Chenkov sprung from his seat with a whispered scrape of metal on concrete, his lips pulled into a satisfied smirk.

“Dispose of him.” He left the room without sparing Jensen a glance.

***

“Take him back to his cell,” Misha ordered, breathing out a sigh he hoped was soft enough to go undetected by his men. He should have felt exultant that he finally broke through Jensen’s defenses, but there was only a leaden weight in his gut, pulling him down and making it hard to breathe; it wasn’t how he had wanted it to go. Misha allowed himself to study Jensen for the first time since he was brought in; he was filthy from the neck down and his wet hair was plastered against his skull. Two soldiers pulled Jensen from the table and the streaks of blood from his broken welts set Misha’s chest ablaze with molten anger. He swung his gaze away and clenched his teeth before his eyes betrayed his rage.

“I’m pretty sure that’s not what the lieutenant general meant.” The man who took the whip to Jensen piped up. He didn’t look away this time, his expression challenging.

“What’s your name soldier?”

“Private Aleksei Bugayev, _sir_ ,” he sneered.

“Noted.” Misha’s tone was cool as ice and soft as a summer’s breeze. “You’ll be hearing from me shortly. Now leave, your presence offends me.” His men shifted uncomfortably as the colour drain from Bugayev’s face.

“Lieutenant General Chenkov will hear of this,” he spat.

“I’d like to see you tell him,” Misha replied mildly, “after I rip out your tongue.”

Bugayev’s eyes bulged as a deep crimson flushed from his neck to paint his cheeks. He shuffled back from Misha, swallowing and running his tongue along his teeth; Captain Misha Collins’ reputation was not built on empty threats.

Misha pushed past the stunned soldier to Jensen’s side. He felt eyes on him, burning a hole into the back of his skull as he reached out and rested his hand on Jensen’s cheek. The man was barely conscious, his skin clammy to the touch. Misha waved the soldiers back and pulled Jensen’s arm around his shoulder, his own snaking around Jensen’s torso to help Jensen stumble off the table.

Water and blood seeped through the starched fabric of his uniform. Jensen leaned against him, his bare feet dragging as he struggled to stay upright. Misha tightened his grip and took as much of Jensen’s weight as he could as they made the slow trek back to Jensen’s cell. Jensen dropped onto the thin mattress, and Misha’s forearms strained—corded muscle twitching with tension—as he caught Jensen’s head and shoulder to lower him down gently.

There was dried blood caked on the sheets, the jagged lines already turning a coppery brown. Misha shut his eyes against the swift rush of anger, and forced slow, steadying breaths into his lungs; in through the nose, out through the mouth.

When he finally opened his eyes, Jensen had turned his back to him and curled in on himself. The welts on his back wept—painting the cords of shifting muscles slick and bloody—and Misha wanted to kiss every open wound until they closed over into smooth scars. Now Jensen’s got his own damn trophies. Misha reached out, but stopped himself when the pads of his fingertips ghosted over chilled flesh. There was still something he needed to do.

Misha pushed himself off the cot, his gaze lingering for one last moment before walking out of the cell and pulling the gate shut behind him. He slipped the key into his pant pocket as he strode back to the interrogation room, and was glad to see that Bugavey was nowhere in sight.

“Volkov,” he called out to his right-hand man.

“Sir.”

“I want you to personally guard his cell,” Misha murmured quietly between them, his eyes trained on the rest of the men, daring them to question him. “Let no one in but me.”

“Yes, sir.”

Chenkov’s office was located at the very heart of the labyrinth. Misha worried at his bottom lip as his feet carried him through the maze of corridors. His mouth was chalky, dried out with words he didn’t know how to say even as his mind raced to form a convincing argument. The ornate door at the end of the hallway loomed closer with every step, and Misha didn’t realize how hard he’d clenched his fists until he forced his fingers to loosen and relax, his palms tingling with pain as he rapped his knuckles on the door.

“Come in.” Chenkov’s voice was muffled by the thick oak. He looked up from his desk when Misha pushed through the door, his lips curled in a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Ah, but if it isn’t Mishka.”

“Lieutenant General Chenkov.” Misha’s booted foot slammed against the concrete floor, one hand slicing through the air in a crisp salute. He stood there, arm raised until Chenkov gave him a small nod, and then tucked his hands behind his back and squared his shoulders, his eyes staring straight ahead. God, but he fucking hated that nickname.

“Good work today,” Chenkov complimented him, his tone mild as if discussing yesterday’s weather. He sat back, his head leaning against the high leather back of his chair and cocked an eyebrow. “Though I must say, it took longer than normal,”

“I wanted to be thorough, just in case he had it in his head to give us false intel”—Misha took a small sip of air through the nose and thanked any deity willing to listen when his voice didn’t waver—“or withhold anything.”

“But of course.” Chenkov’s smile grew, splitting his face in a way that made Misha’s skin crawl. “The information matches what we got out of the other two. I’m glad you took the extra time and effort to make sure we have everything.” He leaned forward, his elbows resting on the edge of his desk, and steepled his fingers slowly.

“I was just doing my job, sir.”

“The others need to learn from your patience, and not be so eager to kill.”

The grandfather clock ticktocked in the corner of the room, each click louder than the next until Misha could barely hear himself think. He dug his nails into his palms to stop his fidgeting and forced himself to keep his gaze forward and steady. Chenkov studied him for a long, unnerving moment, his expression blank and his eyes hard as pebbles.

“Is there anything else, Captain?”

“Yes, sir.” Misha took a deep breath and squared his shoulders once more. “I’d like to keep the prisoner.”

“Oh?” For the span of a fluttering heartbeat, Chenkov looked genuinely surprised. His eyes widened a fraction before narrowing, the flash of unfiltered emotion replaced by the blank mask once more. “You’ve taken a liking to the American?”

“If one could call it that,” Misha replied and let out a slow breath.

Chenkov stood up and paced the room. Misha honed his focus to the squeak of Chenkov’s boots on the floor lest his resolve crumbled with each passing step. Chenkov glanced at him every few steps, his mouth opening on occasion only to snap shut as he shook his head and continued his circle around the office. Misha held his breath, exchanging it for a new pull of air only when his lungs screamed with need. His eyes followed the officer’s every move as beads of sweat broke out on his brow and between his shoulder blades.

“Ah, why not.” Chenkov turned to Misha with a wide grin. “Think of it as a reward for a job well done.”

“Thank you, sir.” Misha ignored the shark-like smile—there were too many teeth for comfort—and let out the breath he was holding, his lungs deflating slow and steady. He gave the lieutenant one more salute before backing up until he was inches from the door. Misha reached behind him, hand closing around the door knob, and only when the door was open did he turn around to slip out into the hallway. His shoulders slumped as tension drained out of him in waves, and when Misha made his way back to Jensen’s cell, there was a bounce in his steps.

He dismissed Volkov with a nod and let himself into the cell. Jensen was right where he’d left him, a pitiful form curled up on the cot and unconscious. Misha ignored the tight pull in his chest as he tugged Jensen upright and wrapped his unresponsive body in his jacket in a tight cocoon. The man stirred—barely conscious—as Misha bent down, draped him across his shoulders, and carried him out into the parking lot. He ignored the open stares and stolen glances; he knew how ridiculous he looked carrying a half-naked man wearing his uniform jacket, but he didn’t care. None of it mattered now that he had Jensen where he could keep him safe.  

Misha laid Jensen in the backseat of his truck and tucked a spare blanket around him. He stopped and took a moment for himself, simply drinking in the soft flutter of eyelashes fanned out against Jensen’s cheeks, the straight line of his proud nose, and those slightly chapped pink lips. Misha swallowed hard.

Fuck, he was so damn beautiful.

Misha hopped behind the wheel, then hesitated. After a moment of debate, he twisted around and slapped a pair of handcuffs around Jensen’s wrists. Just in case.  


	5. Chapter 5

The hubbub of voices rose above the music. Jensen sat back in the booth—the thump, thump, thump of rhythmic bass jarring the soles of his feet—and the sticky vinyl seat squeaked as he shifted. He stroked the rim of the tumbler before picking it up, swirling the amber liquid to watch it film along the glass. 

“Whatcha drinkin’, sugar?” A smokey voice, sultry and flirtatious, pulled Jensen’s gaze from the whiskey to a lovely brunette with big doe eyes. He couldn’t help the twitch of his lips as he drank her in. 

“Care to join me and find out?” He tilted his head to the side and glanced at the spot next to him, his arm stretching out along the back of the seat. 

She slipped into the booth, the short hem of her little black dress rising even higher as she sidled up to slot into Jensen’s open embrace. She smiled at up him through dark lashes, and her plump, red lips glistened in the dim light. “You’ve only got one glass.”

“Well, they say sharing is caring.” Jensen threw back the rest of his drink before pouring another. Her eyes never left his as her lips curled in a faint smile, and when he slid the glass across the table, she winked before picking it up. She threw her head back, her throat shifting as she swallowed, and Jensen caught the scent of strawberries in her cascade of curls.

Slender fingers gripped the bottle, and Jensen saw himself reflected in the red glint of her painted nails. She poured him another drink, then draped an arm around his neck as she slipped into his lap, bringing the glass to his lips and tipping the contents. Jensen frowned; the whiskey burned its way down his throat, the pain sticky and sharp. Did whiskey always burn like this? 

The brunette dropped the glass onto the table with a dull thud and dragged a nail down the front of his shirt. She looked up; her head tilted just far enough to expose the curve of her neck. Jensen swallowed, his pulse quickening until his heart jackhammered against his ribcage, and he wanted to kiss along all that creamy skin and taste the strawberry on his tongue. She leaned in closer, her lips hovering inches away from his when pain erupted from his back. He pushed her away and then stared in horror as her nails rent the front of his shirt to shreds. 

Blood as red as her lipstick beaded beneath her fingernails. Panic seized him by the throat, and Jensen pushed the woman off his lap as he patted himself down frantically. His shirt stuck to him as blood blossomed in blotches across his chest. He could feel the sticky press of cotton against his back, and the pain rolled in like pin pricks; it was dull at first but intensified until it was all he could focus on as tears stung his eyes. 

Thumb-sized bruises materialized along his arms, like footsteps leading up his skin. Jensen tore at the bloody, tattered thing that was his shirt and watched with horrid fascination as more bruises in various shades erupted across his chest. What the fuck was happening? It hurt so bad, and he couldn’t breathe and— 

Jensen bolted upright, and for the span of a few shallow breaths, he gasped in blind panic. His heart threatened to burst from his chest, and he shivered despite the heat as clammy skin stuck to the sweat-soaked sheets that threatened to strangle him. The room began to take shape as his eyes adjusted to the darkness, revealing a sparseness that chased away his claustrophobic panic. 

A dresser and a nightstand occupied the massive room, and blackout curtains blocked out the sun, or the moon. Jensen had no clue what time it was. Or where he was. And wasn’t that just fucking peachy. 

Silk sheets slid from his chest. Jensen looked down—he was still naked—and ran his hands over the soft gauze wrapped around his torso. He swung his feet over the side of the bed and pushed to his feet, but his knees buckled under him, and he fell back down with a soft curse. Anger licked at him like a flame, eating him up from the inside until an inferno burned in his chest. Never in his life had Jensen felt this weak and helpless. He lunged off the bed and swayed as anger-fueled limbs carried him out of the room. 

Light spilled in at the end of the hallway, and Jensen followed it down a flight of stairs that led to a brightly lit kitchen. A familiar figure sat bent over at the dining room table cleaning a gun with a small cloth. Misha picked up each piece of metal with care, his movements fluid and unrushed. Those fingers touched him, stroked him, showed him that same tenderness, but they also inflicted excruciating pain that left Jensen breathless for all the wrong reasons. Misha was a warm blanket and a loaded gun, and Jensen was never sure just what to expect. 

Misha looked up—his fingers never stopped moving—and the weight of his gaze crushed the air from Jensen’s lungs. He said nothing, but the cocky tilt of his chin as he leaned back in his chair rang as loud as any command, and Jensen felt compelled to listen. 

Shame washed over him, blowing life into the dying embers of his rage as he snuffed that thought. He didn’t know what happened or where he was, but Jensen Ackles answered to no man, least of all a man like Misha. With fire beneath his feet, Jensen marched over to the seated figure, his arms crossed over his chest as he glared down at a mop of dark hair.

“Where the hell am I?” 

Misha spared him a bored glance and shifted his attention back down to the table as nimble fingers reassembled the metal pieces. He passed the gun from one hand to the other, hefting the weight of it and giving it a good squeeze before slipping the firearm into its holster. 

“I asked you a question.” Jensen shifted and dug his nails into his arm. 

“I see you’re awake.” Misha pulled a long, hunting knife and tested the edge on the pad of his thumb before slipping it back into the sheath hanging off his shoulder holster. 

“Where am I?” Jensen repeated with a growl. He was still naked, even if the bandages offered some modesty, and Misha’s eyes raking along every inch of his exposed skin robbed the heat from his words. 

“My home,” came Misha’s mild reply. 

“I thought you lived on base.”

“Doesn’t mean I don’t have a place off base.” 

This was Misha’s home. He was at Misha’s house. He was supposed to be dead. Jensen took a staggering step back and swallowed; maybe he was dead, and this was his very own special level of hell. “What do you want from me?”

“Well, now that you’re up”—Misha looked up, a glint in the blue of his eyes—“you can wash your own damn sheets. I’ve been running laundry two days straight.”

“I was out for two days—”

“Bleeding all over my nice silk sheets.” 

Jensen clenched his jaw and clucked his tongue softly; he felt the beginnings of an eye-roll and resisted the urge. Really? He’d been out cold for two damn days and all Misha wanted to talk about was his sheets? He needed some fucking answers, goddamit. 

Misha continued to caress Jensen with his eyes—the gaze steady, scorching—and Jensen remembered the first time they’d stepped under a shower together. Misha had studied him with the same intensity, his blue eyes piercing through him. 

And that’s how he felt now, spread open and vulnerable, and goosebumps broke out along every inch of him despite the temperature in the room. 

“Come here.” It wasn’t a request. It was never a request with Misha, and that pissed him off. Jensen wasn’t in chains anymore, wasn’t shackled and strung up and utterly helpless. Nothing was stopping him from reaching for the nearest kitchen knife or scrabbling for Misha’s gun. 

“The fuck I will.”

“You belong to me now.” 

“I belong to no one.” 

“Do you forget who you’re dealing with?” Misha said softly as he turned to face Jensen, his body tensing, eyes darkening. 

“Remind me.” Jensen regretted those two little words as soon as he uttered them. What the fuck was he thinking? He wasn’t in any shape to fight, and Misha wasn’t the type to crumble under a few feeble blows. Jensen was pushing his luck, should be grateful that Misha had taken him home and cared for him, but he wasn’t going to be anyone’s plaything, least of all Misha’s. 

Misha’s expression darkened, and Jensen flinched when the man extended a hand. Slender fingers ran along the bandages around his thigh, taunting him, and suddenly his skin was too tight. He shuddered, remembering the pain (how could anyone forget something so distinctively nauseating?) but that wasn’t the only thing at the forefront of his mind.

He didn’t want to remember the nights spent in Misha’s private quarters. Didn’t want his memory triggering an inevitable physical response. Jensen hung onto the pain, the hurt, anything to chase away the lingering sensation of Misha’s strong fingers massaging his scalp and the taste of his lips as his tongue licked into Jensen’s mouth in earnest strokes. 

Jensen could sense what Misha was doing, vaguely aware of the battle raging between them as they stared silently at each other. Every absentminded touch of tenderness, every soft curl of Misha’s pink lips, and every murmured praise put a dent in Jensen’s shield until the whole thing splintered. He stood no chance, the Russian held all the cards, and when Misha dropped his hand to cup the bulge between his spread legs, Jensen was lost. 

“I won’t repeat myself again. Come here.” Misha’s voice was low and commanding, and Jensen took two unsteady steps, closing the distance between them. How did Misha make him feel so small when Jensen was the one looking down at him? “Tell me, what do you want?”

The question hung in the air, and Jensen wished he knew the answer. He lived to serve, structured his life around doing the right thing. What he wanted didn’t matter, it was never about him, but the past two weeks spent sharing Misha’s bed had left him aching for something he didn’t know he needed. 

He wanted to be taken apart and put back together. He wanted Misha’s breath warming his skin, wanted to taste Misha’s lips and to feel Misha’s weight on top of him, the slide of his sweat-soaked skin, and the thrust of Misha’s cock claiming him. 

He was so damn exhausted, and right then all he wanted was to collapse and fold into Misha’s arms. 

Shame set his skin aflame. He shook his head and stared at the ground as if avoiding Misha’s eyes would hide all those thoughts. How could he confess any of that to Misha when he could barely admit it to himself? He was definitely in the worst kind of hell. 

Silence ate at him, and with every passing second, he wanted to shrink just a little more until there was nothing left. 

“Is that how you want to do this...” Misha’s voice rolled over him like a lover’s touch, soft and knowing, as if he could hear every word running through Jensen’s head. He unfurled from his chair—all shifting muscles and feline grace—and closed the last few inches between them. “You want whatever I’ll give you?” he whispered into Jensen’s ear, his lips grazing the shell. 

Jensen stood rooted to the floor, muscles twitching with tension. Misha was so close; he just needed to tip forward and fall into those arms. With what little strength he had left, Jensen dipped his chin and nodded faintly. 

Without warning Misha’s hand snapped out, clamping around Jensen’s throat like a ring of molten metal. Heat seeped through his skin, and Jensen bit back a moan as it spread rapidly down to his cock. He blushed, his cheeks burning, but he squared his shoulders and willed himself to hold perfectly still.

“Are you so eager for me?” Something passed behind those damn blue eyes. They were darker, and Jensen could almost taste the storm raging there. The fingers around his throat tightened, and nails dug into his skin. Jensen reached up with both hands and gripped them, his knuckles white with effort, and shook his head. 

Misha’s face split into a broad smile; there were too many gleaming, white teeth. “No?” He didn’t wait for an answer but shifted his grip until his hand closed around the back of Jensen’s neck. When Jensen stared at him—eyes wide and confused—Misha spun him around and marched them toward the stairs.

Jensen’s breath hitched, and his heart pounded against his chest like it was trying to burst free. He stumbled along, his bare feet catching on the edges of the stairs, but somehow he managed not to fall. When Misha pushed him through the door back into the bedroom, Jensen was trembling from a mix of emotions so complex he couldn’t begin to sort through them. 

The bed sat quietly in the middle of the room, the sheets a soft, rumpled invitation. Misha turned Jensen around to face him, and blue eyes bore into him, ripping into his soul with such ruthlessness it left Jensen frayed and breathless. With a hard shove, Misha sent him flying backward onto the bed, the soft mattress sank around him, molding to him as if it was carving out a place just for him. 

“Is this what you want?” Misha’s voice dropped dangerously low, and his gaze burned along Jensen’s body until even the bandages seemed to melt away. He shrugged off his holster, laying his gun and knife on the dresser with a soft thud—out of Jensen’s reach—before turning back to face him. “Me forcing myself onto you, taking you against your will, making you scream?” 

The words were wrong, disgusting, but they pulled him under, and Jensen didn’t know whether to fight or to let them. Misha crawled onto the bed—the mattress dimpled where his hands and knees sank in—and slipped between Jensen’s legs, spreading them wide.

“Want to wrap my fingers around your neck,” Misha murmured against the hollow below Jensen’s throat, and Jensen tried to swallow as his mouth turned into a desert. “And only let you breathe when I feel like it.” Misha nibbled along his collarbone, each word punctuated with a flick of his wet tongue. 

The words stroked his skin and chased away the tremors that shook him. It would be so easy to give in, to let himself fall into a mindlessness where nothing could hurt him. Where he could forget, even if for a little while, just how bleak his future looked. 

“You want my fingers in you? Spreading you? My teeth sinking into you, claiming you mine?” 

_Yes! Yes yes yes, so many times yes._

“You want to know how much I want you? How much I love fucking into you?”

Fuck. 

Jensen could scarcely breathe. He was falling, but there was no fear. Misha would be at the bottom to catch him. He shuddered, struggled to relax, to give up control, and when his arms gave out from beneath him, and his head flopped back into the pillow, he was free. 

His lips parted, pulling in frantic gasps of air as he lost himself in the pitch-black of Misha’s lust-blown pupils; nothing existed outside the blue halos of his eyes. Misha leaned in, his lips plunging for a kiss, and it was a kiss that knew no modesty, a hungry, demanding thing, and Jensen was powerless to resist as he opened himself to it. He moaned, the sound soft and oh so desperate, then Misha’s tongue was pushing into his mouth like he owned him. 

Yes, Jensen wanted all those things. Wanted to feel Misha’s weight sink into him, wanted Misha’s lips all over him. He wanted to wear Misha’s mark like a badge, wanted to be claimed and utterly dominated. 

It was seven levels of fucked up, and a small corner of Jensen’s consciousness rebelled against it, kicking and screaming. But he was intoxicated by the man kneeling between his legs, drunk on the power he had over him. Jensen could deny Misha as much as he could deny his lungs oxygen.

Misha pulled back, their noses bumping. His eyes were wild, and his lips plump with abuse. “Do you like it when I kiss you?” Jensen nodded. A faint smile teased the corners of Misha’s lips. It was a genuine smile, soft and without guile. When Misha pressed forward once more and sucked Jensen’s lips between his teeth, Jensen’s arms slipped around Misha’s neck, pulling him in as far as the confines of their skin allowed. There was an urgent desperation in the way Jensen molded himself against Misha, the way his chest tightened with each laboured breath. 

Misha smoothed a hand down Jensen’s chest, his nails catching soft, white gauze. His lips trailed the sharp edge of Jensen’s jaw, teeth grazing stubble as his tongue lapped at the erratic pulse fluttering beneath his skin. He was warm, Misha’s body a comforting weight draped over him as his hand closed around Jensen’s straining erection. 

The universe shrunk until all that was left was Misha’s mouth on his skin and his fingers around his cock. Jensen screwed his eyes shut and let the current take him as he floated on the edge of untethered bliss. He was so free yet trapped as Misha stroked him, peeling him back layer by layer until there was nothing but raw desire. 

His stomach clenched, the muscles spasming as he laboured through each quickening breath. Misha had barely begun touching him and yet he was so ready to burst, his dam ready to be torn down. Desire pooled, and Jensen could taste the electricity coursing through him when Misha’s fingers stopped and gripped the base of his cock in a vice, denying him the very thing he craved more than air. He keened, his fingers digging into Misha’s arm, urging him on. 

Misha watched him—blue eyes unblinking—until the rise and fall of Jensen’s chest slowed. The urge to orgasm receded, if only slightly, and his body went limp, sinking back into the sheets. Misha grinned, and Jensen was too wrapped up in his frustrated relief to notice the mischievous glint in his eyes as he started stroking again, his fingers slick with pre-come as he brought each digit up the shaft and over the sensitive head.

It took no time at all before Jensen was riding that edge, his body bowing with tension and his fingers gripping at the sheets, at Misha, at anything. Drops of sweat broke out over his brows and trickled down his face; the tickle was enough to make Jensen see white. But Misha was still watching him, and when Jensen thought he was going to explode, Misha backed off, and that same choking grip stopped Jensen’s quest for release. 

Jensen glared at his tormentor through lidded eyes; he was too high strung to speak, and every muscle in his body sang with fatigue. Misha’s hand started to move, and Jensen choked on a desperate whine as his head flopped back onto the pillow. Again and again, Misha brought him to the brink of release, only to deny him each time. The edge was getting thinner, Jensen had lost count, only that it hurt to breath when he teetered on it more and more precariously. 

“Who do you belong to?” Misha’s breath tickled his ear, his words cutting through the fog. 

Jensen could barely think, but Misha demanded an answer, one Jensen was only too willing to give right then. “...y-you…” he gasped, the words barely a whisper. 

“What do you want?” 

“C-come…need to come...” It was all too much; the ache in his groin, the burn of Misha’s breath, the grip of his fingers, the stinging pain on his back and thighs as sweat soaked into the lashes. 

“And what will you do for it?” Misha nipped his jaw sharply, demanding his undivided attention. 

“A-anything...anything you w-want.” He was so incredibly desperate, his need so overwhelming he wanted to throw up. Jensen gazed into Misha’s face and begged him in silent plea. A part of him, the part that wasn’t on fire, hated himself for uttering those words, but he meant them; he would do anything if Misha would only allow him to come. 

“Remember,” Misha growled into his neck, “you belong to me.” His fingers loosened, and liquid fire rushed through Jensen. Misha stroked and tugged at his cock, his teeth sinking into his shoulder, but there was no pain as stars exploded and white, hot pleasure punched through him. 

Jensen convulsed as ropes of sticky release exploded over Misha’s fingers to land on crumpled sheets. Misha’s lips pressed against the curve of his ear, his voice soothing as he murmured sweet nothings. The fingers on his softening cock stroked him through his orgasm, milking him until the last drop, and when Jensen struggled to open his eyes, Misha kissed each eyelid and told him to stay still. 

Time flowed around Jensen as he dozed. Misha was pressed up against him, the cotton of his t-shirt rough against Jensen’s hypersensitive skin. He remembered every word he’d said, remembered the desperate tremor in his voice, but the feeling of euphoria drained out of him, leaving behind a bitter taste in his mouth. 

Misha had played him. Plucked his strings like a well-tuned guitar and Jensen sang his songs like a good little pet. The bed shifted behind him as Misha rolled away, and Jensen kept his eyes shut and clenched his teeth against the draft against his back. A warm blanket settled around him. Jensen waited until the click of the bedroom door closing echoed back to him before ducking under the covers.


	6. Chapter 6

The timer beeped incessantly, a demanding annoyance. Jensen startled awake, rubbed his eyes, and rolled off the couch onto unsteady feet. The TV remote clattered to the hardwood, and he cursed as he scooped it off the floor before stumbling into the kitchen.

Jensen pulled the chicken from the oven—the skin crispy and golden, ripe with the aroma of garlic—and his chest swelled. Cooking was the one constant in his life even when everything else went sideways. A mission gone wrong? There’s a rib recipe for that. Almost died on the job? Nothing a few dozen chocolate chip cookies couldn’t fix.   

It was no surprise, then, that Jensen found solace in bringing flavours to life when he was stuck in a situation he didn’t want to acknowledge. He checked the time; it was quarter to eight, and Misha would be home any minute. A surge of warmth shot through him as he thought about Misha. Would he like the chicken? He never told Jensen what he liked, but he always cleared his plate no matter what Jensen put in front of him. Two weeks with no complaints; that’s pretty damn good.

While the chicken rested under a foil tent, Jensen scooped the root vegetables from the roasting pan and arranged them on a serving platter. The first night Jensen was strong enough to venture into Misha’s kitchen, he’d been begrudgingly impressed. Everything was brand new, and Misha only grunted when Jensen cocked questioning eyebrows at the man when he opened the fridge to find a pack of beer and a jar of pickles.

The next day, Misha had come home with enough groceries to feed an army, along with baking essentials and a Mars bar. Jensen snickered at the memory of Misha’s scowl when Jensen told him he hated Mars bars.

“What’s so funny?”

Jensen jumped, and the serving spoon clattered to the floor; he spun in time to see Misha’s face split into a teasing smile. It was always bittersweet when Misha came home. Being alone all day with nothing but pay-per-view and his own thoughts was taxing in a way Jensen never thought possible. Back home, he treasured his alone time and cursed long and hard whenever a buddy or his siblings came barging in on his days off. Jensen had wished for solitude, but he didn’t expect to find it as house arrest in a foreign country.

“Ah, nothing.” Jensen’s heart stopped its drum solo against his chest as he bent down to pick up the spoon.

“Do you always stand around the kitchen”—Misha shrugged off his thick coat, draped it over the bar stool, and came around to peer under the tinfoil—“and laugh at nothing?”

“Haha, you’re funny.” Jensen batted his hand away and pulled the foil off. “I wouldn’t be so batshit crazy if I wasn’t locked up all day.” It came out sharper than Jensen expected and caught him off guard. Fear chased away the warmth in his chest when he dared a glance at Misha; he did not look amused.

Misha said nothing, but the twitch of tendon in his neck was all the tell Jensen needed. He turned and busied himself with carving the chicken. Misha stood close, his presence overwhelming, and Jensen gripped the carving knife to stop the tremor in his hand.

Shit. Shit shit shit. Why did he have to open his big mouth? Sure, he was cooped up all day, but this was way better than the dinky little cell he was in before. He had clothes, there was pay-per-view, and he had a spectacular view of the forest behind the house when he worked out every day. The windows were locked, but it wasn’t warm enough that Jensen would want to open them anyway. And Misha came home to him everyday—

“Drop the knife.”

He complied without question and clenched his jaw until his teeth ached. Misha picked it up and dropped it into the sink before turning to pin Jensen with an icy stare. He crowded into Jensen, his head tilted just so as his hand snapped out, and Jensen flinched as it clamped around the back of his neck and pulled him close.

They stood toe to toe, their foreheads touching, and everything from Misha’s nails digging into his skin to the way Misha’s eyes bore into him turned his knees to putty. Jensen squared his shoulders and swallowed, but returned Misha’s glare. Maybe he’d get punished for it, but it was a small price for not turning into a spineless, twitchy mess always at Misha’s beck and call.  

Jensen’s skin tingled as if electricity charged the air around them. Misha’s eyes narrowed, and Jensen ground his teeth as he let all that blue wash over him. Sharp pain pricked at his skin when Misha’s fingers tightened. But he welcomed it, clung to it like a lifeline and chided himself for his foolish complacency.

He was always going to be a prisoner, and no amount of false domesticity and offerings of goodwill could change that. It was stupid to think just because Misha let him near the kitchen knives, that he was somehow Misha’s equal. The tip of Misha’s tongue flicked out against his bottom lip, and Jensen tracked the blur of pink. Misha’s lips twitched, and realization hit Jensen like a sack of bricks. Misha wanted him angry, liked it when Jensen was defiant even as Misha chipped away at him until there was nothing left.

The corners of his own lips mirrored Misha’s as Jensen felt a familiar stirring in his gut. He’d be lying if he said the thought of Misha bearing down on him didn’t fire his blood, the way his fingers would pluck and stroke until Jensen forgot his own name. It was disgusting; his skin should be crawling even at the idea of something so degrading, but he loved this game of cat and mouse—maybe a little more than he cared to admit—and the slow stretch of Misha’s sinister smile left him breathless.

They’d fucked almost every night since Jensen woke up in Misha’s house, but the storm raging behind those intense blue eyes held a different kind of promise. Jensen loathed and dreaded it even if he could hardly wait for those skilled fingers to break him down and take him out of his own head.  

“Dinner smells nice.” Misha’s voice shattered the bubble around them as he leaned in and brushed his lips against Jensen’s, the twitch of his eyebrow turning even that small, innocent touch into something poisonous and intoxicating.

“I hope you like chicken.” Jensen darted forward and caught Misha’s bottom lip between his teeth, the sharp edges worrying at the soft flesh before Misha pulled back with a growl.

There would be no cuddling and documentaries after dinner. No gentle rolling hips as Misha fucked him open nice and slow. Misha was going to hurt him—put him in his place and remind him just what he was—and Jensen was only too eager for it lest he forget again why he was there.

***

The kitchen sat neglected as Jensen stared out the window. Misha’s truck was pulling into the driveway, and Jensen chewed on his lip, running idle fingers along the rope marks around his wrists. He ached, a tingling buzz just beneath the skin where his muscles sat fatigued, used. Fresh bruises littered his body; some he could see, others he could feel—every dark cluster a brand carved into him like a claim. Evidence that he belonged to Misha.

Jensen swallowed around the lump in his throat and rubbed at his wrists harder; the dull pain where rope bit deep flared into sharp focus. Misha hopped out of the truck and stretched, his coat and shirt riding up to flash a strip of bare skin. Heat unfurled from Jensen’s chest and crept up his neck, and suddenly the tremors he’d been suppressing all day shook him to the bone.

Misha had stripped him, peeled him back, and laid him bare. He’d brought Jensen to the brink and held him there, a willing captive, and Jensen was too happy to let Misha crack him open and make him forget; it felt good to stop caring for a few hours. He should know better; he was trained to be better, but training didn’t mean a goddamn thing when every morning Jensen woke to find the sun reflected in the blue of Misha’s eyes.

A wave of nausea rolled over him. Jensen dug blunt nails into bruised flesh, and sharp pain became cleansing fire. He was a trapped animal, petted if well-behaved, but the stick was never far from the carrot, and it was becoming harder to tell just which was which.

Misha was walking towards the house, his arms full with bags of groceries, and Jensen resisted the urge to fidget. He didn’t make dinner, not that there was much in the fridge, but he could have made it work if he wanted to. Would Misha care? Would he punish him further, continuing where they left off the night before? Maybe that was what Jensen wanted. The lock turned, and Jensen spun to face the front door as his heart pounded an erratic beat.

He wanted—no, he couldn’t—but would it be so bad—fuck—

Misha’s head poked through the door, and he dropped the key as he struggled with the overladen bags. Jensen rushed over, catching a brown paper bag as it slipped from Misha’s fingers, and the glimmer of warmth in Misha’s eyes sent chills down Jensen’s spine.

What the fuck was he doing?

The door stood open, inviting, and Jensen tasted the cold winter air on his tongue. Misha—two more grocery bags balanced in his arms—squatted down to pick up the key.

It was now or never. But—what if—

Indecision pulled at him, threw him off balance, and panic fluttered its wings in his chest. Misha was peering over the bags looking for the key; he was relaxed, didn’t even look to make sure Jensen wasn’t inching towards the door. Something snapped in his chest and squished his panic into a bloody smear.

The grocery bag crashed onto the floor and split as Jensen pushed past Misha and out the front door. A string of Russian followed him into the waning light.

***

The forest stretched as far as the eye could see, and it became apparent rather quickly that Misha lived in the middle of nowhere. Jensen sprinted along the dirt trail—his breath a misty plume with every exhale—and trees blurred into green ribbons on either side of him. The ground was cold, frozen branches and rocks dug into the soles of his feet, and Jensen blew warm breath into his hands.

Cold air cleared the fog in his head. Despair crept in to replace it.

The trail grew narrower, and he couldn’t remember where he’d turned to run deeper into the forest. Jensen slowed and scanned his surroundings, every conifer was identical to the next, and he tried to ignore the sour taste of panic on his tongue. The forest was eerily silent, no buzzing insects or scurrying critters; any creature with two working brain cells must either be hibernating or had migrated south months ago.

Colours faded as the moon chased the sun across the sky, its light drenching the forest in muted silver. Jensen tucked his numb fingers under his armpits and pushed on. The night grew colder by the second, and Jensen cursed himself again for his stupidity. This was Russia in the middle of the goddamn winter. What made him think it was a good idea to go running into the wildness wearing a hoodie and sweatpants, barefoot no less? Real smart there, jackass.   

His teeth chattered, bone smacking bone in erratic staccato, and his feet were too numb to feel the scrapes and cuts. There was a disconcerting lack of sensation from the tips of his ears and nose. He needed shelter to stay alive, but the clouds obscured the moon, stealing the silvery light, and dooming Jensen to stumbling around in the dark.

Stars twinkled above him, cold and uncaring, their apathy contagious. Why bother? He had no way to contact anyone, no way to set up an extraction, and nowhere to go. The world thought him dead, and after this little stunt, Misha wouldn’t want him back either. And if he did, was all that pain worth living for?

The wind chased away the clouds as Jensen stumbled into a small clearing, and light spilled around him. A lone tree stood proudly in the center, and low to the ground was a small hollow in its impressive trunk. Life sparked from deep within him, a surge of hope powered his limbs, and Jensen whispered a small prayer as he scrambled into the shelter; it was wide enough to curl up in.

Dead pine needles cushioned the ground, and he was thankful for the thin layer of insulation. The tree shielded him from the wind, but it wasn’t much warmer, and Jensen was losing his grip as his eyes drooped. He fought the urge, but each time the lids fluttered shut, they stayed sealed for a few heartbeats longer, and the cold seeped deeper into him until everything stopped hurting.

He knew if he fell asleep he’d die, but he was so cold, and he was living on borrowed time, and he was so tired…

Something grabbed his ankles, and Jensen kicked out instinctively. The grip tightened and yanked, and Jensen tumbled from the hollow into biting cold air. He groaned and curled in on himself. If he was going to get eaten by a bear, so be it; he was going to die anyway.

“Jensen?” Rough hands pulled him into a sitting position, and the sound of crinkling plastic cut through the crust of ice around his brain. Jensen focused through lidded eyes and sucked in a sharp breath when stormy blue met his gaze.

Misha. Misha came to save him.

“Here, hold this.” Misha tucked something warm between Jensen’s frozen hands. The tiny packet radiated heat like a mini sun, just like Misha provided his own welcoming warmth. Jensen smiled and folded forward until he was tucked neatly inside Misha’s embrace.  

“You came…” Jensen whispered into the thick cotton of Misha’s coat.

“Shh, I got you.”

And Jensen believed him.  


	7. Chapter 7

They drove home in silence, but Jensen didn’t mind. He hadn’t been in the cold long enough to lose any fingers or toes, but when Misha turned off the engine, and the heated seat began to cool, Jensen pulled the thick blanket tighter around his shoulders and shivered. Now that they were back at the house, and he was warm enough to think straight, Jensen dreaded what was hidden behind those turbulent blue eyes. 

The door shut behind him, and Misha took care to lock it from the inside. The soft slide of metal against metal as the lock clicked home was a balm on frayed nerves, soothing. The comfort surprised Jensen, and for a moment he felt the weight of the house around him, grounding him. 

Misha had found him, came to him, and brought him home. 

“How are you feeling?” Rough hands rubbed up and down his arms. 

“I’m—uh, I’m fine.” Jensen flexed his fingers. They tingled, and when he rubbed the pads together, the skin felt too tight. “I’m warm. Well, warming up anyway.”

For the span of a few erratic heartbeats, Misha’s stare bore into him, and Jensen withered under it. He was in a shit load of trouble, and no doubt Misha was going to punish him. He just hoped whatever it was, Misha would wait until the next day.

A solid arm slipped around Jensen’s waist, and heat seeped into him, spreading through his veins like warm molasses. He flinched, but the arm around him curled with gentle pressure, protective, and Jensen felt himself guided along the hall and up the stairs.

Misha sat him—still bundled in blankets and shrouded in guarded suspicion—on the edge of the tub before running the bath. The mirror fogged up, and a mist of steam settled around him, clinging to his skin. Gentle hands peeled the blankets from his shoulders before reaching for the bottom of his sweater. Jensen raised his arms, and Misha undressed him, his movements muted and tense.

The water was too hot against his chilled skin, but Misha—all shifting muscles and feline grace—slipped into the tub and settled behind him, his body a solid cushion, and ran calloused fingers over his arms and shoulders and torso. Jensen sat rigid, every nerve on fire as he waited with bated breath for some sort of punishment—pressure points, perhaps? 

Misha continued to run warm hands along his chest and back, strong fingers kneading stiff muscles, working out pebbles beneath his skin. It was impossible to stay high-strung, not when Misha’s fingers were trailing along his thighs, his chest rising and falling against Jensen’s shoulder blades as his breath tickled the hollow behind Jensen’s ear. Not when the water—no longer stinging—lapped at every secret crevice, washing away the wilderness to replace it with the tender caress of home. 

Jensen sank into the soothing strokes of fingers along his skin, into the rhythmic inhale and exhale of Misha’s every breath. He closed his eyes, and time stepped out of the tiny bathroom for a while, leaving behind a peaceful tranquility.

Misha shifted behind him, and Jensen groaned softly. The water was growing cold, each of his fingertips a perfectly shriveled raisin, but he clung to the comforting lethargy for as long as possible. Misha helped him out of the tub and rubbed him down with a towel. The shift in his jaw and the stiffness in his neck brought Jensen back to the teetering edge of uncertainty. 

The curtains were pulled back in the bedroom, and that same moon peered in through the window, casting eerie shadows along the cold, smooth floor. Jensen—warm in his towel with his skin soft and pink—followed Misha through the door and shut it behind him. The house groaned, floorboards creaking, hollow echoes that shattered the brittle silence around them. Misha hadn’t said a word to him since they got home; it was unnerving. 

Misha was angry, yet his hands were gentle, his lips soothing as they peppered covert kisses along Jensen’s shoulders in the tub. He was always so sure, every shift of muscle was fluid confidence when he touched Jensen, pleasured him, punished him. But that confidence was absent, replaced by something stiff, uncertain, alien, and the muddled blue of Misha’s eyes set Jensen on-edge as if everything was out of place. 

Misha pushed him onto the mattress—his hands shaking—and the sheets clung to Jensen’s damp skin. He swallowed, his tongue thick and clumsy, blocking his words. He wanted to press his lips against every inch of Misha, to whisper  _ I’m sorry _ ’s over and over until they permeated through his skin. He wanted to smooth away the tremors, and for a moment, Jensen didn’t care why he was there, only that he  _ was _ , and Misha was shaking. 

“I-I’m—” 

“Shut up.” Misha’s voice was strained, and a sliver of the ruthless soldier crept back into the hard set of his jaw. Jensen’s breath hitched, air stuck in his throat, as Misha crawled along side him to straddle his shoulders. Misha’s fingers twitched as he yanked off the towel around his hips, and Jensen’s lungs deflated in a soft sigh when Misha’s cock—already at full-mast—bounced against his chin.   

Jensen would bear whatever punishment Misha had in mind without complaint if it meant no more tremors in those fingers carding through his hair. 

“Open.” One little word, commanding, and the edge to it sparked something in those bright blue eyes. Jensen recognized that spark, and was only too eager to feed it until it burned like wild fire.

“And if I don’t?” They’d played this game before, and when Misha’s hand clamped around his throat, fingers tightening, the world snapped back into place. 

“You won’t like what I’m going to do if you refuse.”

“You say that like I have a choice.” 

Misha’s lips curved in a lopsided grin, and Jensen licked his lips before parting them. His cock flooded Jensen’s senses, the taste, the smell, the weight of that thickness as it slid along his tongue and down his throat, all overwhelmingly intoxicating. The hand clamped around his throat tightened, and Jensen arched as he tried to swallow the inevitable rising panic as his lungs demanded oxygen. 

When Misha pulled back—cockhead resting heavy on the tip of his tongue—Jensen grinned and moaned softly. His teeth grazed sensitive skin, and Misha’s sharp inhale was all the warning he had before his nose was nestled in a bed of dark curls. It was all the warning he needed, all that he deserved. Jensen lifted his head off the pillow and sucked Misha down, tried to swallow him until every last inch of Misha was in his mouth. 

“Jesus fuck—” The headboard caught Misha’s weight as he dropped forward, fingers spreading wide against smooth wood, and dark, messy hair blending into ebony as Misha gazed down at him. His eyes glowed in the glimmering moonlight, wire-thin blue halos surrounding lust-blown pupils.   

Tentative fingers stroked Misha’s flank, and when he didn’t protest the touch, Jensen’s fingers grew bolder, taking hold of solid muscle as he guided Misha’s hips to sink lower. His throat stretched around Misha’s cock, snug, painful, but the discomfort added to the rightness of this moment. Jensen wanted— _ needed _ —all the pieces to snap back together even if hurt.    

The headboard creaked as Misha pushed against it, his hips rolling, muscles shifting beneath Jensen’s fingertips. Nails dug into smooth skin, and Jensen smiled around a mouthful of dick when Misha hissed and plunged forward. The room faded into muted colours as Jensen stared up into slitted blue eyes. His jaw ached, and saliva trickled down the corners of his lips to soak into the pillow, but none of that mattered. Misha pressed his forehead into the headboard, fingers flexing and curling into fists as he chased each thrust down Jensen’s throat with another, a little faster, a little more desperate.  

Misha’s cock plunged down in punishing strokes, but Jensen bore it, welcomed it, and had long since given up trying to match the rhythm. Misha’s skin glistened with sweat in the moonlight, his thighs straining as he chased his release, relentless. Lidded eyes peered down at Jensen—gaze locked on him like a sniper’s target—and Misha’s lips parted as if he couldn’t draw enough air into his lungs. 

Jensen was distracted by the clench of solid abs, the row of white teeth biting into Misha’s pink bottom lip, the strands of sweat-soaked hair matted to Misha’s furrowed brows; everything about this moment was breathtaking even as Misha literally took his breath away. He was so mesmerized by the moment he choked when the first rope of come hit the back of his throat. Misha groaned softly into the meat of his forearm, his hips stuttering to the erratic beat of Jensen’s heart as he emptied himself down Jensen’s willing throat.

Misha’s chest slowed its rapid rise and fall as he caught his breath and pulled out. Swallowing was going to hurt for a while, but Misha was sliding down next to him and pulling Jensen into his arms, small spoon slotting into the curves of his larger counterpart. Misha’s hands stroked along Jensen’s abs; his fingers shook, but there was a sureness to the touch that made Jensen think the tremors were a result of something completely different than before. 

Heat wrapped around Jensen’s cock, and he gasped into the silence, his hips snapping forward. How had he forgotten about his own erection until Misha closed his hand around the damn thing? The grip was slick, suffocating, and when Misha’s fingers tightened further and stroked up, the room exploded in blinding silver moonlight. 

He was so fucking hard, and Misha’s bruising grip only added to the pressure until Jensen teetered on the edge between pain and pleasure. When he came—his body bowed and frozen in mindless bliss—it was to the sound of whispered words and the tickle of Misha’s breath against his skin. 

Misha stroked him through his orgasm, and then pulled the sheets over them, uncaring of the mess. It would be a pain in the ass to get the stains out, but Jensen was too content to argue as he sank back against the expanse of Misha’s broad chest. Misha’s arms stayed wrapped around him, one leg slipping between Jensen’s, a comforting heaviness, possessive and relaxed. 

His eyes drooping with sated fatigue, Jensen pulled the sheets to his chin as he melted into all that warmth. 


	8. Chapter 8

It’d been a week since Jensen tried to escape. Misha had spent every night since plagued with nightmares. He’d been too late, and Jensen had slipped away in the cold, or was eaten by a bear (Misha knew bears were hibernating, but dreams weren’t rational), or fell and broke his neck. They kept him awake into the wee hours of the morning, even with Jensen pressed into his side or cradled against his chest.

Misha yawned and tipped back the last of his coffee—cold and a touch gritty—and rubbed his eyes. Untouched paperwork stared at him, and Misha glared back at the pile on his desk with equal disdain. A knock interrupted the staring contest; saved by the bell.

“Come in,” Misha called.  

The door opened and Volkov stood, stiff-legged in the doorway. “Captain.” Volkov’s right hand sliced through the air in salute, his left holding a cardboard box.  

“Volkov.” Misha waved him in and nodded, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. Volkov dropped his hand and closed the door behind him. In the privacy of Misha’s office, Volkov’s shoulders relaxed as he walked up to Misha’s desk, and dropped the box on top of the stack of papers.

“Here’s the stuff you asked for.” Volkov pointed at the empty chair next to him. “May I?”

“Yes, of course,” Misha said as he tipped the box on its edge and surveyed the contents. Satisfied, he looked up and rolled his eyes. “You know you don’t have to ask for permission when it’s just the two of us, right?”

“The walls have ears, sir,” Volkov whispered and winked conspiratorially.

Misha shook his head and chuckled. “I thought I was the paranoid one.”

“Your paranoia is contagious, sir.”

“I should have you flogged for that.”

“You wouldn’t do that to your only friend, would you?” Volkov’s voice was even, but there was a familiar mocking gleam in his pale grey eyes.

“I have other friends.” Misha didn’t, not really.

“None that’s going to get you more Mars bars.”

“Yeah, about that, don’t need any more of those.”

“What, your American pet getting too fat?”

Misha snorted and leaned back in his chair, and his fingers drummed along the smooth surface of his desk. “He’s...not my pet.”

“You’re not getting attached, are you?” Volkov’s gaze—cold like a midwinter’s morning—pinned him, piercing right through him, and Misha knew he’d said too much. But it was too late to take it back, so in for a penny, in for a pound, right?

“I...no, I don’t know.” Misha shrugged. “He’s a total pain in my ass, but he’s a good cook.”

“Just be careful. Some guys are talking.”

“Bugayev?”

“Amongst others.” The chair scraped against the floor as Volkov pushed himself to his feet.

Misha glanced at the box, at the papers trapped beneath it, and pinched the bridge of his nose. He was in no mood for paperwork, and the thought of going home to Jensen was much more enticing now that the haunted, fearful look had left Jensen’s eyes. The week had started rough, but Jensen was recovering and had even made dinner the past couple of nights. Misha didn’t want to admit it, but he yearned for things to go back to normal, or whatever their fucked up version of normal was.

Volkov’s hand was on the doorknob when Misha made up his mind. “Wait up; I’ll walk you out.”

***

The aroma of caramelized onions and browned butter greeted Misha as he pushed through the front door. He inhaled deeply and smiled, his eyes fluttering shut as his stomach growled in anticipation. Happiness draped around him, a blanket made of light and air, and Misha kicked off his shoes with more gusto than usual as he strode into the kitchen with his box tucked under his left arm.

The last rays of the dying sun tinted the floor in lazy shades of orange; the hardwood was spotless, not a speck of dust in sight. Misha glanced around the living room and noted the tidy pile of magazines on the coffee table, also free of dust, and the rug was striped in two different shades of blue. Fresh vacuum lines.

Jensen was standing in front of the stove; his back turned to Misha, lost in concentration as he cast his cooking magic. Misha’s throat tickled, and he took a slow breath and willed away the tightness in his chest. He put the box on the counter, and snuck up behind Jensen, his hands resting low on Jensen’s hips as he pressed a soft kiss to Jensen’s nape.

“That smells amazing,” Misha murmured against dimpled flesh as Jensen startled.

“Misha!” Jensen dropped the wooden spoon into the sizzling pan and twisted around in Misha’s arms. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

Misha leaned in, lips catching Jensen’s in a lazy game of tag as they traded languid little kisses until heat pooled between Misha’s legs. Jensen pulled back—cheeks flushed prettier than the sunset—and cleared his throat.

“Um, the onions’re gonna burn.” He shuffled around to face the stove and picked up the spoon, stirring furiously.

The domesticity was a dizzying sweetness on Misha’s tongue, or maybe that was just the lingering taste of Jensen’s mouth. He stroked Jensen’s bare arm once more before retreating to a bar stool. Splashes of dusk painted the kitchen in muted hues. Soft edges rounding out the sharp memories of last week. Things were falling back into place, and Misha felt a sense of belonging in this house like he’d never experienced before.

Home.

“I, um—” Misha cleared his throat. “I got you some stuff.” He glanced at the tattered copy of _The Art of War_ laying open and face down on the end table by the couch; it was the only English book he owned.

“Oh yeah? What kinda stuff?” Jensen turned off the stove and pulled beef patties from the oven, where they sat warm and waiting. “No more Mars bars I hope?”

“You’re so getting spanked for that,” Misha growled and waited until Jensen finished setting out the trimmings for burgers before pushing the box across the island counter.

Jensen cocked an inquisitive brow at him. “Is that a promise or a threat?”

“Just look in the damn box.” Misha rubbed the back of his neck and pointedly ignored the warmth spreading along his skin.

Jensen pulled out a copy of _Sweet Valley High_ . He flipped the book over and gave Misha a very pointed look _._

Misha shrugged. “Volkov has a 14-year-old daughter.”

A stack of DVDs, a couple issues of _Men’s Health,_ and a pile of science fictions and murder mysteries later Jensen was wide-eyed and smiling, amused.

“Where did you get all this stuff?” Jensen held up a DVD box with a giant red hand print and a man holding an axe with _My Bloody Valentine_ printed in bold white letters.

“Just some stuff laying around base”—Misha plucked the DVD from Jensen’s fingers and wrinkled his nose at the cover—“and Volkov’s kids like American horror movies. You said you’d ordered everything you wanted to watch off pay-per-view, and I figured you’d like some more books and stuff for when I’m at work.”

Words tumbled from Misha’s mouth, syllables tripping over themselves. He put the DVD down, then picked it up again and stroked the plastic cover, his fingers itching for something to do. He stole a glance at Jensen, and his amused smiled had softened into something lighter, dream-like. Content.

“Thanks.”

One little word, but it struck deep and punched right through him like an armour-piercing bullet, and what came pouring out warmed every nook and cranny of Misha’s soul. Fuck, maybe he was getting a little too attached.

They pushed the DVDs and books and magazines back into the box and ate their burgers seated at the counter, balanced on bar stools with their elbows touching and knees bumping. And if the picture they painted together was just a touch too domestic, that was a secret between Misha and the pot lights chasing away the shadows of the night.

He helped Jensen put away the leftovers and load the dishwasher. Jensen danced around him in the kitchen, and Misha felt at ease, felt _right_. He enjoyed seeing Jensen orchestrate his kitchen, a conductor in his own right as music flowed from every inch of him; a song only Misha could hear.

They grabbed a random DVD from the box and slipped it into the player. Misha pulled Jensen against him on the couch—his solid back snuggled against Misha’s chest—and wondered for a second if Jensen could feel Misha’s heart flutter when he folded into his embrace, his head resting on Misha’s shoulder.

A splash of colour danced across Jensen’s skin as the movie started. Misha couldn’t focus on the screen; Jensen’s hair was feather-soft against his chin, and distracting fingers traced continuous little circles along Misha’s forearms. Misha slid his palm against the front of Jensen’s sweatpants and smirked into his mop of soft brown hair when Jensen’s half-hard cock twitched beneath his touch.  

Jensen shifted against him, his shoulder blades digging into Misha’s chest, his back arching as Misha’s fingers curled lower to cup his balls firmly. Jensen held still, muscles locking up one by one as every breath became a little sharper while Misha fondled him through the rough cotton.

“You like that?” Misha murmured against Jensen’s warm skin. Jensen nodded, his head thrown back just far enough that Misha could make out the little green slits of his eyes. “Answer me.”

Jensen worried at his bottom lip, but he managed a breathless “yes” when Misha’s teeth sank into smooth skin, his tongue sweeping along the dimpled marks on Jensen’s neck. Jensen was soft and pliant and rigid and stiff; a beautiful paradox tucked neatly against Misha’s body and into Misha’s life. He wanted to take Jensen apart one piece at a time and savour every morsel like it was the tastiest thing on earth. Jensen was exactly that: a taste he couldn’t get enough of, a flavour he wanted to stay drunk on forever.

Damp spots soaked through Jensen’s pants as Misha stroked and squeezed, cruel fingers with minds of their own tormented with glee. Jensen was panting, head lolling against Misha’s neck, and his brows furrowed in agonized bliss.

“You’re so good for me.” Misha’s lips moved, words plucked from his muddled brain. “You’ll come for me just like this, with my hands on you.” Not a question—not a command either—but a simple fact neither could deny even if they wanted to.

Jensen shivered, full-bodied and desperate as he keened softly. Misha cursed, uncaring of which language it was in, and shoved his hand under cotton and elastic to wrap around steel-hard flesh. The body slotted against him bowed away, and Jensen’s back was one graceful arc of beautiful tension. Misha growled, his hand stroking as fast as the confines of Jensen’s pants allowed and—

His phone rang. A crescendo of shrill interruptions until Jensen collapsed against him with a pained whimper. Only work called him on that phone, and Misha never ignored work for anything, or anyone.

Misha yanked the phone from his pocket with his free hand, his other still tucked beneath the waistband of Jensen’s underwear, fingers dragging in lazy strokes. “What?”

“Something’s come up.” Volkov’s voice was punctuated by multiple car doors slamming. “We need you back at base.”

“Right now?”

“ _Da_.”

The line went dead, and Misha wanted to throw the phone out the window. Or against a wall. Instead, he dropped it on the floor as Jensen looked up at him, the green of his eyes barely visible through long, thick lashes. His mouth opened—luscious lips glistening in a reflection of iridescent colours—and Misha slipped in a finger, cutting off whatever Jensen was about to say.

Jensen signed around the digit, teeth nipping when Misha began stroking him again in earnest. Jensen’s hips rolled in time with each pump, becoming more erratic as each finger passed over the sensitive underside to swipe around the velvety head.

“I need to go back to work,” Misha growled, “but I’m going to take care of you first.”

Jensen whined, jaw slack, tongue lapping at the finger like an afterthought. Misha pushed a second digit into his wet mouth, toying with Jensen’s tongue as he stroked his cock.

“Want you to come.” Harder. Faster. Whimpers like music to Misha’s ears. “Want to feel you.”

Teeth bit into Misha’s fingers, and Jensen choked around them as his hips lost all rhythm. Come—sticky and warm—covered Misha’s fingers, painted the inside of Jensen’s pants, and continued to leak in jerky spurts as Misha stroked Jensen through his orgasm.

“When will you be back?” Jensen’s voice was far away, sated, but laced with guarded irritation.

“As soon as I can.” Misha kissed Jensen’s sweaty brow, licked the faint bitterness of salt from his lips, and eased himself from Jensen’s boneless body.


	9. Chapter 9

_As soon as I can_ turned into three days and counting with no communication, not that Misha had any way of contacting Jensen at the house. He watched a couple DVDs and tried to read one of his new books, but it was impossible to focus when Jensen had no clue when Misha was coming back. If he was coming back.

Jensen pushed away his half-eaten plate of leftover lasagna and threw the book across the coffee table. It wasn’t Misha’s first mission since he’d brought Jensen home, but he had never been away for more than a day before. Jensen wouldn’t allow himself to entertain the idea that Misha may not come back. That maybe Jensen had grossly miscounted the days since his capture and missed the—

No, it was too soon.

He glanced at the abandoned book then the TV, and neither seemed capable of drowning the static in his head. With a sigh, Jensen heaved himself out of the couch and dumped his dirty plate in the sink. He’d take care of clean-up in the morning.  

The bedroom was too quiet, the bed too big, and the sheets were cold against his skin. Jensen curled up on his side with Misha’s pillow clutched to his chest, inhaling until his lungs threatened to burst, and closed his eyes.

Sleep eluded him, playing an irritating game of hide and seek. Questions of _what if_ plagued him, leached the warmth from the pillow. He missed the weight of Misha’s arm draped across his waist, and the down-filled comforter wrapped around his shoulders was luke-warm at best. Jensen huffed, his warm breath muffled and spread, trapped in the high thread count of the pillowcase, and forced his mind to wander, counting sheep until the numbers blurred.  

Heat enveloped him, wet and all consuming.

Jensen moaned and turned over onto his back, his legs spreading as warmth radiated all the way to his fingertips. Hands stroked along his hips, down his thighs, and back to smooth over his stomach. The touch was a soothing contrast to the pressure and heat surrounding him, and Jensen rolled with each fresh wave of pleasure as—

His eyes flew open, and Jensen choked back a startled gasp when a pair of shocking blue eyes stared up at him from the junction of his thighs. Misha’s lips were wrapped around the base of his cock, and the room spun with dizzying realization.

“M-Misha—” Jensen pushed onto his elbows, and the clumsy nip of Misha’s teeth almost sent him spiraling. Calloused fingers cradled Jensen’s balls—already drawn up tight—and Misha’s mouth pulled back just enough for the air to chill his slick skin.

Misha lavished his cock with his mouth, lapped at it with his tongue as his fingers stroked in time with each drag of pink, wet lips, and if every once in awhile his teeth grazed against something sensitive, Jensen didn’t notice. He was already so close, his body chasing after his release without restraint, and Jensen was vaguely annoyed he wasn’t awake enough to enjoy Misha blowing him for the first—and possibly last—time.  

Gentle fingers stroked the inside of Jensen’s thighs—the skin thin and soft and hypersensitive—and stubble scraped against his slick testicles. Misha slurped on the downstroke, the sound filthy and loud, and Jensen gasped when the head of his cock slipped down Misha’s throat. It was too hot, too soft, too tight, and every nerve ending along his cock pulsed with electricity until he was trembling with need, overwhelmed by it.  

The ceiling swam out of focus, and Jensen was coming with a shout, squeezed by a hot vise. He couldn’t recall grabbing fistfuls of Misha’s hair, but soft locks slipped from his fingers as Misha pulled back and flipped Jensen onto his stomach, his softening cock twitching in the cold. Rough hands grabbed his hips and yanked. Jensen’s face and shoulders jammed into rumpled sheets, and his knees slipped as Misha wedged himself between them.   

Jensen whined and the mattress muffled his weak yelp. Fingers were prying him open, exposing his vulnerability in a way only Misha dared, but Jensen was too blissed out to care. Something cool and slick dribbled along Jensen’s crack, and his shocked inhale came out in a drawn out moan when a finger—no, two, that was definitely two—breached the tight ring of his puckered hole.

It should have hurt, but Jensen was still recovering, every muscle lax and every bone turned to rubber. Misha’s fingers twisted and scissorsed, curled and flexed, filling up the aching void Jensen never knew he had. A third finger pushed into him, rough and without warning, and the sudden burning stretch punched the air out of his labouring lungs. Jensen sobbed, his thighs trembling as his body sought to take those fingers deeper. It hadn’t been that long since the last time Misha was in him, but the past three days of uncertainty had left Jensen desperate and fearful and so fucking empty.

Misha’s fingers fanned out, and Jensen surged forward, his head slamming into the headboard with a deafening crack. His cock twitched and filled—the head throbbing and already leaking again—and when Misha’s fingers tapped that wonderful bundle of nerves, Jensen choked on a broken sob. “P-please–Misha—”

“Please what?” Misha’s voice was strained, each syllable ground out through clenched teeth.  Maybe he wasn’t as in control as Jensen believed.

“Fuck me.” He needed to be filled, needed Misha to slide into his rightful place, needed to feel complete.

“How do you want it?” A fourth finger rubbed against Jensen’s abused hole, the tip sweeping just beneath the tortured flesh, threatening to push inside.

“Hard, fast, f-fuck I don’t–I don’t care.” Jensen couldn’t breath. Could hardly form words as his body clenched in fearful delight.  

Misha’s fingers pulled out with a slick twist, but Jensen wasn’t empty for long as Misha’s cock rammed into him in one swift thrust, stretching him to the limit. Jensen choked back a pained sob, and the sharp tang of copper filled his mouth. Misha pulled back and slammed forward again, harder, rougher, more urgent, and Jensen swore as he braced his hands against the headboard.

“Fuck–yes, Misha, please—” Jensen buried his face in the pillow and bit into it. Pain shot through his scalp and down his neck as Misha yanked his head back.

“Let me hear it,” Misha said, “and don’t you fucking dare hold back.”

“Misha...fuck...fuck fuck fuck…” Jensen couldn’t think as his brain shorted, overwhelmed by Misha’s grip on his hip, his fingers wrapped around Jensen’s hair, his cock jammed as far into Jensen as his body allowed. Tension gripped him as his back bowed in a painful arc, muscles locking up, flesh taut and vibrating with each agonizing thrust of Misha’s thick, heavy cock.

Every fearful thought of Misha’s possible demise from the past three days was pounded out of him until there was nothing left; he was empty and full, floating and grounded, trapped and free.

“God, I m-missed...missed your cock…” Jensen babbled, his voice echoed in his ears but the words made no sense. Just noise, because Misha had asked him to not hold back. “Missed you, Misha...missed you so fucking much…”

Misha leaned over, his sweat-slicked chest sliding against Jensen’s back as he mouthed hotly against Jensen’s ear. “M-missed you...fuck Jen, I’m com—” Misha wrapped his arms around Jensen’s waist, muscles bulging as he yanked Jensen back to meet his frenzied thrusts. Teeth sank into his shoulder, and Jensen screamed as Misha clutched at him and lifted his knees off the bed.

Hot come splashed into Jensen, coated his insides; an invisible claim only Jensen could feel. Misha dropped his legs back onto the bed, and shaky fingers wrapped around Jensen’s twitching cock. It took three embarrassingly sloppy tugs and Jensen was spilling over Misha’s fingers before collapsing in a pool of his own release.  

Misha tumbled down on top of him, his softening dick slipping out, and warmth leaked out, down the inside of Jensen’s thighs. Jensen was too exhausted to care, but not tired enough to miss Misha’s last words before he went tumbling down the rabbit hole.

“Missed me, huh?” Jensen murmured, his chest tight. Misha’s arms slithered beneath him and squeezed, and the way his body tensed gave Jensen pause. “Misha? What’s...what’s wrong?”

Silence—drawn out and too damn thick—wedged between them, and Misha clung to him a little tighter, as if afraid he’d slip away. Jensen opened his mouth, closed it, and opened it again, but Misha beat him to it.

“Volkov got shot”—Misha shuddered and buried his face into the crook Jensen’s neck—“One in the shoulder, one in the chest. The asshole wasn’t wearing a vest.”

“Is he…”

“He’s in the hospital, critical but not dead.”

“Misha…” Jensen thrashed out of Misha’s serpentine embrace and twisted to face him. Misha’s eyes were red, haunted, and there were dark circles ringed beneath them. Jensen gathered Misha into his arms, and when the Russian didn’t protest, he sighed and planted a kiss on Misha’s sweaty forehead.

They stayed like that, tangled up in each other’s arms, until Misha’s eyes closed and his breathing slowed.  

***

“97...98...99...100.” Jensen counted out loud as he forced himself through the last few push-ups. His shoulders screamed with fatigue, but it was the kind of burn born of good old-fashioned physical work, and Jensen welcomed it.

The time spent in his cell had eaten away at his reserves even though Misha fed him every night, but he was slowly gaining back the weight and getting into shape, maybe even better than before the mission. Being able to do a hundred push-ups straight was the last test, and he passed with fuel to spare.

Jensen glanced at the clock and cursed. He’d lost track of time and Misha would be home any minute. Shedding his clothing, he tossed the sweaty bundle into the laundry hamper and stepped into the bathroom for a quick wipe down.  

Dressed in a simple cotton t-shirt and a fresh pair of sweatpants, Jensen was tipping raw chicken into the skillet when the front door opened and shut with a sharp click. He focused on the sizzle of cooking meat, latched onto the smell of onions and butter and oregano instead of the sound of footsteps padding down the hall and into the kitchen.

Fingers snuck beneath the hem of his t-shirt, and warm lips pressed wetly against the nape of his neck. Jensen inhaled sharply, the exhale trailing into a whimpering moan when those lips found their way to the hollow behind his ear.

“Stir-fry?” Misha’s voice echoed in his ear and vibrated against his skin.

“I, um”—Jensen cleared his throat—“thought I’d keep things simple tonight.” He folded in the bell peppers and asparagus, and tried not to light the whole damn thing on fire as calloused fingers—warmer now—slipped below his shirt and trailed up his abs.  

“I’m going to take a shower.”

Jensen nodded and made a noise in the back of his throat, stirring fast and furious as he tried to ignore the conjured image of Misha’s naked body—shifting muscles littered with scars—as hot water ran rivulets down his pale skin.

Misha laughed as he headed up the stairs, the throaty, husky sound trailing behind him, lingering to tease. Jensen pulled the pan from the stove and slid it into the oven. He checked on the rice, fluffed the grains with a fork, and turned around to the island sink to fill water glasses when he saw it.

The phone sat on the counter; its black screen a reflection of the pot lights from above.

Jensen’s hand froze on the tap, his heart rate jumping from zero to a hundred in the span of a sharp inhale. Misha never left his phone unguarded, and since Jensen’s unfortunate (utterly stupid and spastic) escape attempt a few weeks ago, he’d been even more careful about where he stored his weapons and cellphone and the key to the front door and windows. This was Jensen’s only chance.

The water glasses clinked in the sink as Jensen abandoned them and grabbed the phone. He thumbed the power button and mouthed a silent thank you to the Man above when the screen turned on. He got the passcode on the second attempt, having to guess it based on the position of Misha’s fingers when he’d secretly watched Misha unlock his phone in the past. Jensen swallowed and punched the dialer with a clammy thumb as he held his breath and listened.

The sound of water splashing against tile echoed from upstairs, and Jensen let out his breath with guarded relief as he dialed the number that was drilled into him. Jensen waited, one ear plastered against the smooth touch screen while the other strained to hear the sound of the shower.

The line clicked on the fourth ring, and a soft female voice carried through the speakers. “Identification please.”

“This is Sergeant Jensen Ross Ackles. Service number 85732.”

A pause before the voice came back on. “Sergeant Ackles. We presumed you dead.”

“Yeah, well, you’re stuck with me for a while longer.”

“The mission?”

“Success. What date is it today?”

“March 3rd, sir.”

Jensen breathed a sigh of relief.

“Will you be ready for extraction?”

“Yes. I’ll activate my tracker at the prearranged time.” The patter of water petered off, and Jensen cursed. “I gotta run.”

“Sir?”

“Yes?”

“It’ll be good to have you home.”

“You have no idea. Ackles out.”

Jensen hung up and searched through the call history. It took a moment of fumbling, but he managed to navigate the Russian menu and deleted the latest entry before placing the phone back on the counter. His heart was in his throat as he plated dinner, and the sound of Misha humming drifted from the top of the stairs just moments later.

Misha strolled into the kitchen as Jensen poured the second glass of water. His gaze landed on the phone, and his smile faltered as he picked it up and turned it over in his hand. Jensen turned and busied himself with setting up the table, feeling Misha’s eyes on him, watching his every move.   

“Dinner’s ready.” Jensen swallowed before turning to face Misha, and breathed a little easier when his voice came out steady. When Misha didn’t move, his brows furrowed as he thumbed through his phone, Jensen bit the inside of his cheek and asked, “Everything alright?”

“...Yeah. Just work stuff.” Misha slipped the phone into his pocket and joined Jensen at the dinner table. He was smiling, but his shoulders were tense as he sat and picked up his fork.

“I hit my mark today,” Jensen said around a mouthful of chicken, his free hand digging into his thigh under the table to stop his fidgeting.

Misha’s eyebrows flew into his hairline. “All one hundred in a row?”

“Yup.” Jensen hid his smile behind his water glass as Misha’s gaze lingered on him like a lover’s touch. He preened—nervousness pushed aside to make room for swelling pride—and basked in Misha’s unspoken praise, and if there was a touch of jealousy behind those darkening blue eyes, all the better.

“Well isn’t that something.” Misha stabbed an asparagus through the heart and brought it to his lips. “Last time I tried, I only got to eighty-six.” His teeth crunched down on the thin, green sprig, and Jensen’s chest froze, forgetting how to breathe for a few skipped heartbeats.

They ate in silence, but a million words passed between Misha’s side-long glances and Jensen’s increasingly warmer cheeks. Sometime between Misha getting up for a second helping and Jensen needing a third glass of water, the jitters went away, replaced by a giddy sense of anticipation and yearning. Misha kept looking at him, eyes dark and gaze calculating, and Jensen shivered with each sweep of all that blue along his skin.

“I need to take a shower,” Jensen said as he took the last plate from Misha and slipped it into the dishwasher.  

“Don’t take too long.” Misha mouthed against Jensen’s ear before turning away and flopping onto the couch, his feet resting on the coffee table.

Jensen’s heart sank as soon as Misha dropped out of sight, as if the sun had set. He trudged up the stairs, turned on the shower, and stripped out of his clothes. Steam rolled around him as he studied himself in the mirror. His cheeks had filled out, and the dark circles under his eyes were finally gone. He twisted and ran fingers along his thighs; the scars were faint, the worst of them clustered above his right hip where the whip had cut deep, leaving behind long smooth ridged flesh.

Jensen clenched his jaw as he traced along those scars. The skin was wax-paper thin and tender, and when he scraped nails along it, pain licked at him like a phantom flame. The bite of the whip lurked just beneath the surface, a reminder.

Misha didn’t wield the whip, didn’t leave behind any physical evidence of Jensen’s torture, and every day it became a little harder to believe that Misha had caused him any pain at all. The Russian had saved his life more than once, and why would he do that if he didn’t actually care—

His chest ached, and Jensen closed his eyes against the voices screaming in his head. _How can you believe this is real? You’re trained for this. You’re a weakling, a coward, and you deserve it, all of it._  

The pitter-patter of water receded, giving way to the voices, persistent, poisonous. The air was pregnant with moisture, and every breath was weighed down, suffocating with realization. They were right. What the fuck was wrong with him?

Jensen pulled open the top drawer under the sink and reached below the counter, digging his nail into the soft wood to carve a groove before running the pad of his finger along the previous ones. There were two clusters of thirty, one for each day he’d been held captive. He swallowed the lump in his throat and stared at his reflection, distorted by steam. It was time.

Under the hot spray, Jensen forced his mind to wander. By the time his fingertips shriveled into prunes, his hands had stopped shaking, and it slowly became easier to breathe. A good soldier assessed the situation and acted, and Jensen was nothing if not the best damn soldier he knew. He could do this, no matter how hard his gut twisted and how badly he wanted to bury his head in the sand.

When Jensen came back downstairs—feeling and smelling better—Misha had put on a movie. He pulled Jensen against his chest on the couch. One simple touch and Jensen was grounded, tethered, and the voices dissipated like smoke. The TV flickered on, the remote resting cool against Jensen’s cheek as Misha picked a documentary about deep sea creatures.

The room shimmered in a splash of ocean blue, and soon Jensen’s eyes were falling shut, his body warm and lax.  

“A thing came up at work.” Misha’s voice cut through his wandering thoughts. A thing; it was what Misha called his missions, as if they weren’t super classified and life threatening situations. “I won’t be home for a few days.”  

Jensen didn’t believe in coincidences. He knew exactly what this mission was, had counted on it the moment he found out he wasn’t going to die. The splash of cold reality washed away the rose-tinted lie he’d pulled over his own eyes, and he tried to ignore the sharp pang of dread spreading through his chest. “When do you leave?”

“Day after tomorrow morning.” Misha sighed and leaned his head against Jensen’s. “With any luck, I’ll be back in three days, five at the most.”

Jensen nodded and worried at his bottom lip, and the tightness in his chest grew until he was curling in on himself.

“I’ll go grocery shopping tomorrow so you’ll have plenty of food.” Misha’s voice was soft, his fingers gentle as the stroked along Jensen’s arm. Food was the last thing on Jensen’s mind as he forced himself to relax.

They didn’t say anything after that, and watched the documentary tangled together. Misha made love to him on the couch. They missed the ending, but neither cared as they stumbled upstairs and fell asleep in each other’s arms.


	10. Chapter 10

Misha came home early the next day loaded with groceries.

“Jesus—” Jensen grabbed a bag from Misha’s arms and dropped it on the counter with a thud. “Are you planning on being gone for a month or something?”

“If you’d rather go hungry”—Misha glared at him and put down the other two bags—“I can take it all back.” Misha disappeared down the hall, muttering too softly for Jensen to hear, and returned with two more bags bursting at the seams.   

“Go take a shower,” Jensen said as he emptied the nearest bag. “I’ll put everything away.”

“What’s for dinner?” Misha dumped the contents of a second bag onto the counter and caught a stray apple as it rolled off the edge.

“Pork chops with a mushroom cream sauce.”

“Hmmm, sounds delicious.” Misha bit into the apple and pecked a sweet, sticky kiss on Jensen’s cheek before heading for the stairs.

Jensen’s smile wavered as Misha disappeared around the corner. He separated the fresh stuff from the non-perishables and put them away. He blinked hard and his chest seized as the kitchen turned into a mosaic of blurry shapes bathed in dying sunlight.

What the fuck was wrong with him? Jensen didn’t have an answer no matter how many times he asked himself. He should be happy—elated even—as everything fell into place. This time tomorrow he would be stateside. He’d be home.

Jensen dug the heels of his palms into the corners of his eyes before pulling out a frying pan for the pork chops. Meat sizzled and popped in heated oil, splattering painful droplets on his bare arms, but Jensen barely felt it.

Was the empty apartment with the broken tap really home? What was home without a soul for him to tether to? Jensen swallowed a fresh wave of nausea and forced oxygen into his lungs. In, out. In, out. Until the sour twist in his gut eased, and it didn’t hurt to breathe anymore. He’d done his duty and put up with more torture in the past month than most people endure in their entire lives. He was done, and he was going home.

His nose stung with the acrid stink of burning meat, and Jensen scrubbed his face with frantic fingers when the stairs creaked. Misha walked into the kitchen smelling like fresh soap and citrus shampoo, and slid strong arms around his waist, chin resting on Jensen’s shoulder. “Hey, what’s that smell?”

“Oh–uh nothing. I burned the chops...”

“Wasting my food I see. Someone needs to get punished for that.” Misha nipped Jensen’s ear and backed him away from the stove until Jensen bumped into the island. Misha crowded closer, and Jensen’s knees turned to jelly as Misha’s arm slid around his waist and he heaved Jensen onto the counter. His legs spread—creating a space for Misha to slot into without urging—and he shivered as Misha’s upturned gaze washed over him and stripped him bare.  

Misha’s hands trailed along Jensen’s thighs as he leaned up for a chaste kiss. Jensen bent forward, his back bowing as he searched for a firmer press of lips, a lick of tongue, a nip of teeth, anything. Misha pulled back and worked the waistband of Jensen’s sweatpants and underwear down his hips. The glint in Misha’s eyes was unmistakably mischievous, and Jensen couldn’t remember the last time he was this playful.

Jensen hissed, the counter cold against his flushed skin, and his cock was already twitching with interest as his pants pooled around his ankles. One large hand pressed against Jensen’s chest, pushing him back until he was lying flat on the granite counter top. Misha leaned over him and pushed his hand beneath the hem of Jensen’s shirt, lifting it inch by inch as wet hair dripped on Jensen’s bare skin. The touch was gentle, fingerpads dancing like pixies, and Jensen trembled as desire flowed through him.

“Already so hard for me.” Misha’s mouth followed his hand, his lips and tongue navigating the dips and valleys of Jensen’s abs. Jensen swallowed, his tongue thick, and he _ached_ for the man between his legs.

The counter was hard, but Jensen barely felt it as he struggled onto his elbows. He wanted to follow Misha’s every move, soak up every sensation as Misha painted soft kisses along his skin, and burn every last detail into his mind like an eternal brand. Blue eyes stared up at him through thick, dark lashes, and Jensen shivered, full-bodied, beneath the intensity.

Teeth grazed goose-dimpled flesh, nibbling and biting until they reached the coarse curls between Jensen’s trembling legs. Misha winked, and Jensen keened—high pitched and desperate—when Misha dragged the flat of his tongue across the tip of Jensen’s cock.    

Jesus fucking christ. Misha’s tongue was on his dick, his lips kissing along the shaft, his fingers cupping his balls with surprising tenderness. Jensen sagged back onto his elbows, his head tipping back as his eyes fluttered shut. He was dizzy with anticipation, already imaging the velvet heat of Misha’s mouth, his mind dragging up hazy images of the last and only time Misha went down on him.

But there was no wet tongue, no hot breath, and no tight throat enveloping his erection, and Jensen remembered too late that Misha had promised punishment.   

“Now that you’ve completely ruined dinner”—Misha pulled back, tongue running along glistening lips—"allow me to show you my cooking skills.” Misha dug out two frozen pizzas from the freezer and turned on the oven.

Jensen pushed himself onto unsteady feet and stuffed his achingly hard cock back into his pants with trembling hands. “You call this cooking?”

“Hey, I apply heat to food over time. It’s fucking cooking.” Misha smirked.

They ate in the living room—plates balanced on knees—with a documentary on the praying mantis playing on TV. Misha wrinkled his nose when the female ate the male after copulating.

The show ended as they cleared the kitchen together. Jensen stole covert glances at Misha, his chest seizing every time he glanced at the clock. Time waited for no one, and before Jensen realized how late it was, Misha was reaching for him.

“Ready to finish what we started?” The look in Misha’s eyes was downright sinful.

Did he want Misha’s hands and mouth all over him and Misha’s thick cock grinding into him? Hell yes. But Jensen didn’t want the night to end, didn’t want to settle down next to Misha one final time. Sex meant going upstairs; sex was numbered kisses and borrowed time. It was too soon, and he wasn’t ready. Not yet.

“You know I do,” Jensen said as he reached for the box tucked beneath the coffee table, “but maybe we can play a game first?” He rummaged around and pulled out a deck of cards.

“Oh? What do you have in mind?” Misha cocked an inquisitive eyebrow.

Jensen pulled the well-used deck out of the box. “Have you ever played Go Fish?”

“No?”

“It’s easy,” Jensen shuffled the deck. “I’ll show you.”

“Can we play strip Go Fish?” Misha peaked at each card as Jensen dealt them.

Jensen snorted and laid the deck down between them on the leather couch. “Not everything has to be about sex, you know?”

Misha looked like he wanted to argue, but picked up his cards instead. “So, how do I win?”

“It’s easier if I explain as we go.” Jensen rolled his eyes. “Basically, you want to collect four of the same number.”

“So, four aces?”

“Right.” Jensen picked up his cards and rearranged them to his liking. “You ask me for a card that matches what you have in your hand, and if I have it I to give it to you. You keep asking until I don’t have the one you want. Then I tell you to Go Fish, and you pick up a card from the center pile.”

“Okay,” Misha said. “You got a king?”  

Jensen scowled and handed over two kings. He had expected the first game to be a throwaway, but Misha was a quick study, and before long they were going at it head to head. Jensen had never played a more competitive game of Go Fish.

“Ha!” Misha threw down his last four cards on top of an impressive stack. “I believe this means I win.”

“Aw, what?” Jensen groaned and stared at his measly pile. “Beginner’s luck. One more time?”

Misha smirked and collected all the cards, shuffling them with deft fingers. Jensen watched them, graceful and sure as the cards fluttered in Misha’s hands. The living room was blanketed with a comforting silence, a quiet that settled Jensen’s stomach and calmed his mind. Misha dealt each card with practiced ease, and the glint of playful confidence in those deep, blue eyes warmed Jensen from head to toe.

In this room, seated cross-legged on this couch within their cocoon of soft lamplight, Jensen _belonged_. He picked up his cards and fanned them out, pushing thoughts of escape and missions and home out of his mind. “Gimme your queens.”

Misha grinned. “Go Fish.”  

***

Jensen woke with a start, alone. At first, he thought he’d overslept, but a glance at the clock calmed his nerves. It was quarter to five; he still had plenty of time. With a soft groan Jensen flopped back into bed, hugged Misha’s pillow to his chest, and closed his eyes as he breathed deeply into the soft silk.

The bathroom door was closed, muffling the sound of the shower. Jensen turned his head and stared out the crack between the curtains, his mood as gloomy as the dark sky outside. This was not how he imagined this moment. The air sat heavy on his chest, and his eyes stung whenever he let his mind wander too far, yet it was hard to focus on any one thing.  

The tap squeaked as Misha turned off the shower, and Jensen scrambled out of bed. He didn’t want to see Misha, didn’t want to think about what Misha was walking into. Maybe if he avoided Misha just a while longer, Jensen could fool himself into thinking this was just another morning, another day where he did his calisthenics and read his books and cooked dinner.

Jensen fumbled his way into the kitchen. It was dark, and his vision blurred no matter how hard he tried to ignore the ache in his chest. _Pull yourself together, Ackles. Don’t be stupid._

With trembling fingers, Jensen flicked on all the lights. The kitchen softened in the warm glow, chasing away the harshness of the night. He stood by the coffee machine as it spluttered into life, and the smell of routine wrapped around him like a blanket, smothering the tremors. Jensen pulled two mugs from the overhead cabinet, poured himself some coffee, and made Misha’s with one sugar and a splash of milk.

The normalcy of waking up together and sharing a cup of coffee before Misha left for work felt alien and warped as Jensen stared out the window. It was still dark outside, and his ghostly reflection stared back at him like an accusation, a betrayal.

“Morning.” Misha’s voice echoed, and Jensen sloshed coffee on his hand.

“Good morning,” Jensen said as he turned around, and his breath froze on the inhale. Misha was in full uniform, his hair still wet around the tips, and his smile lit up his beautiful blue eyes like gemstones. When was the last time anyone smiled like that at Jensen? That happy for no reason other than that it was _him_? Jensen swallowed the lump in his throat along with a gulp of coffee and ignored the pain as it burned all the way down.

“You’re up early.” Misha picked up his mug and sipped his coffee.

“Wanted to see you off.” The words slipped out easily, so natural Jensen didn’t think twice. Misha blinked, unfiltered emotion flittering across his eyes before he turned and hid behind his coffee mug.

“I swear”—Misha dropped bread in the toaster and pulled strawberry jam from the fridge—“I’d take a desk job if it meant no more waking up at ungodly hours.”   

Jensen watched the stretch of starched fabric across Misha’s broad shoulders, drank in the way his head tipped back as he finished his first cup of coffee, waiting for his toast.

“And it wouldn’t be so bad,” Misha said and poured himself a second cup of coffee. “I’d get a raise, the hours wouldn’t be as long, and I wouldn’t have to leave you home alone again.”

Something hardened in the pit of Jensen’s stomach, solidified his resolve, and for the first time since he made the call, Jensen felt like he was doing the right thing. The kitchen faded away until Misha was the only thing in colour, his elbows bent as he smeared preserve on his toast. Jensen grabbed the pan off the drying rack and swung it as Misha turned.

The flat bottom connected with Misha’s head with a sickening thud, and Jensen dropped the pan just in time to catch Misha as he crumpled. He held two fingers against Misha’s nose, and when warm air tickled his skin, Jensen breathed a sigh of relief and hoisted Misha over his shoulders.  

Jensen carried Misha to the bedroom and cuffed his hands to the bedpost, dropping the key within reach, and froze. He never had the luxury of simply _looking_ at Misha, never truly appreciated the elegant sweep of his eyelashes and the perfect shade of his lips. Misha looked so serene, so innocent, the harsh lines around his eyes smoothed out by unconsciousness.

Misha was so beautiful, a diamond in the rough, and one Jensen couldn’t afford. He shook his head and took a deep, shuddering breath. With one last look—details of Misha etched deeper than any knife could carve—Jensen turned and ran back downstairs. He grabbed the paring knife as he felt along his right hip. Hidden beneath the criss-cross of bleached skin was an older scar, smaller, almost faded, and Jensen bit into the kitchen towel as he stabbed the tip of the knife into it.

He dug out the plastic capsule buried in his flesh and held the towel against his hip as he broke it open. A tiny transmitter dropped from his bloody fingers, and Jensen cursed as he fumbled for the button. One tiny beep; it was out of his hands now.   

The sky faded as the sun crested the horizon. Hues of orange and blue rushed into the kitchen, washing over him even if the warmth of sunbeams could not reach his skin. Jensen had watched the sunrise so many times, sitting in that exact spot, yet it never dawned on him just how majestic it was. He swung his gaze away from the window, and his chest squeezed at the sight of a pile of playing cards strewn about on the coffee table.

He could hear the sound of a chopper drawing closer—the staccato of whirling blades drowning out thought—and for a moment, Jensen couldn’t breathe. It all happened so quickly then, the front door splintered and voices were shouting his name. Jensen stumbled into the living room and shoved a playing card into his pocket before hands grabbed him and pulled him out into the crisp morning air.  

Wind gripped his clothes and whipped dirt in his face. Jensen turned and searched for the bedroom window, hoping to catch just one more glimpse of a familiar silhouette.

Tears streaked down his cheeks as he climbed into the chopper. Men were clapping him on the shoulders and squeezing his arms, but Jensen was oblivious to their shouted words and comforting smiles. He stuffed his hands into his pockets and rubbed his thumb along the dull edge of the card until Misha’s house disappeared from sight.

***

The ceiling swam info focus. Misha groaned as the ringing in his ears intensified before fading into the background. His fingers were numb, his arms ached with a dull pressure, and metal rattled when he tried to rub his eyes.

Shafts of sunlight speared through the cracks in the curtains, and when Misha looked at them directly, his headache flared and his stomach heaved with nausea. Misha leaned back into the pillow and closed his eyes, willing the room to stop spinning as he drew deep, quivering breaths.

What the fuck happened?

Misha tested the cuffs and a string of curses died on his lips. He twisted and the curses turned to a sigh of relief when his face rolled on top of something sharp and cold. Misha picked up the key with his mouth, passed it to his stiff fingers, and unlocked the handcuffs. He sat up slowly—rubbing his wrists—and got up on unsteady feet.     

The sun was making its lazy way across a beautiful blue sky, and Misha’s stomach dropped like a nuclear bomb. The last thing he remembered was having coffee in the kitchen, making toast, and thinking about taking up a desk job so he didn’t have to go on missions anymore. So he could come home to Jensen—

Jensen.

Misha found the bloody towel in the kitchen and crushed the tiny transmitter with a fist. Jensen was gone. He shouldn’t be surprised, shouldn’t feel this dreaded fist of betrayal and hurt close around his throat, his heart. Misha knew what they were to each other, but there was a small glimmer of hope that maybe Jensen had felt what Misha felt.

The barstool scraped across the hardwood as Misha slumped into it. He glared through the window at the cheerful sky, and the clouds mocked him as they moseyed on by. God, he was so stupid to think a man like him deserved...all of this, deserved Jensen, and his own stupidity had made him soft and careless.

His truck was still parked out front, and Misha threw on his coat as he grabbed his keys, determined to at least try for the rendezvous point. His phone rang just as he stuck the key into the ignition.

“ _Da_ _._ ”

“Captain?” Volkov’s voice was fearful. “You’re alive?”

“Why shouldn’t I be?”

“The—” Volkov cleared his throat and stalled. The hesitation gave Misha pause. “It was a trap.”

Fear in a way he’d never experienced pooled in his gut. “What do you mean?”

“The intel was fake. Led our troops into an ambush—” Volkov coughed and wheezed as if his lungs could not get enough air, and it was agonizing moments before he was coherent enough to continue. “They came in, wiped the entire research facility, killed the skeleton crew and captured all the scientists. A few of our guys managed to get away, but…”

Another coughing fit, but Misha was too numb to care. It was all a lie, everything was a fucking farce, and Misha played right into it. “I gotta get to bas—”

“NO!” The venomous intensity behind Volkov’s voice speared through Misha. “When you didn’t show up this morning…”

“They think I’m in on it.” Misha gripped his phone to keep his hand from shaking.

“Bugayev...and some guys, they’ve been talking with the higher-ups. It’s best if you lay low for a while.”

Misha opened his mouth, but Volkov cut him off. “They’re coming to debrief me at the hospital as we speak, I can’t give them intel I don’t have.”

“Right, take care of yourself.”

“You too...Misha,” Volkov whispered into the phone.

The line went dead. Misha stared at the phone for a long moment before popping the back cover and yanking out the SIM card. He snapped the phone in half, the snap and crackle of metal and plastic barely soothed the edges of his rage. Misha ran back into the house and fried the SIM in the microwave before taking the stairs two at a time.

Misha pulled out a black backpack from the back of the closet and checked the contents. Satisfied, he ran back downstairs and the smell of burning plastic tickled his nose. Misha took one more look around the kitchen and swallowed the lump rising in his throat. So many memories, so many moments, all a sham, a decoy, a fucking joke.

He was a fucking joke, and Jensen must be having such a time telling his comrades about the stupid Russian he had wrapped around his little finger. Thoughts of Jensen ignited a fire in his belly and he clung to the anger, anchored himself to it, let himself be purified by it as it settled in his bones until his hands stopped shaking.

Misha left the front door open, climbed into his truck, and drove off without a backward glance. Jensen played him like a fool, played them all like fools.

If Jensen was ready to die, then who was Misha to deny him.


	11. Chapter 11

The first time it happened, Jensen thought he was going to die.

It was two days before they finally let him leave the compound. Debriefing was like interrogation all over again, only this time he was dressed in a stiff uniform, and no one wanted to punch him until he threw up. The on-site psych evaluation was inconclusive, and the shrink—who looked way too young shifting timidly behind the general—handed Jensen a business card and advised him to call and confirm his appointment.

She also marked him unfit for duty, and he was put on paid leave indefinitely. It was a load of crap, and Jensen shoved the card in his pocket with more force than needed as he stormed (in a controlled fashion) out of his commanding officer’s office.  

The first thing Jensen did when he got home was clean his apartment. Everything was exactly as he’d left it. His bed sat unmade in the middle of the studio, and empty beer bottles collected dust in the sink. It didn’t take long to sweep and mop with so little floor actually showing, but Jensen didn’t stop until every nook and cranny was free of dust, the bed had fresh sheets, and the kitchen counters gleamed with his reflection.

He stood in the middle of the room, hands on his hips, and felt out of place. A mere few months ago, this had been a place of refuge, a place to unwind after missions, somewhere he could sleep away his days off. A mere few months ago, this tiny space with its sterile white walls was enough.  

The hollow in his chest ached, and the claws of _wanting_ —of _feeling_ like there should be more to life than a 600 square feet concrete cage—picked at him like a scab, exposing a tender wound. He made a disgusted sound in the back of his throat, suddenly angry for no reason, and stormed into the tiny bathroom.

Steam rolled around him in lazy plumes as he ran the shower and shed his clothes. Jensen gripped the edges of the porcelain sink and studied himself in the fogged-up mirror. The dark circles beneath his eyes were back, and it was hard to ignore the haunted shadows etched in the lines of his face. The scars on his hips and back throbbed and itched, but scratching at them only made it worse.   

The water was hot—too hot—as Jensen stepped into the shower and pulled the curtain shut. A torrent of white hot needles tattooed across his shoulders and back, replacing the itch beneath his skin with something more tangible. Jensen stood beneath the spray, his head bent, until the sharp bite of hot water lost its edge. He took a deep, humid breath and turned to face the downpour.

His breath froze on the exhale, and an invisible fist wrapped around his lungs and squeezed, infinitesimally slow. Rasps of shallow breaths, sharp, a struggling staccato of desperation, and his body fought for air. The ground shifted, but Jensen barely felt the jolt of pain as his knees struck unyielding tiles.

Shit. Fuck, fuck fuck fuck he couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think as steam clogged his nose and rolled down his windpipe. There was so much water. Not enough air. No air at all. His heart jackhammered in his chest. Lungs clawed at his ribcage. But it was no use. His muscles refused to listen.

The room spun. A dull glow lined the fuzzy edges of his vision. Black blotches exploded, like ink on ruined paper. Like bruises on tortured skin. Like he was back on that table. Like death.

Time slipped by, unaware and uncaring of the shivering, whimpering mass huddled on the hard, slippery tiles. Jensen hugged his legs to his chest and buried his face between his knees until the trembling in his hands eased enough for him to turn off the shower. A hush fell around him, broken by the drip, drip, drip of the faucet, and a blanket of silence, of moisture and cloying air, draped around him, suffocating yet grounding.  

Jensen didn’t know how long he sat there—his fingers numb as his nails clawed into his arms—and didn’t move until the fist around his chest loosened its grip. Until his lungs stopped spasming in pain with every breath. Until his stomach stopped heaving, and his body went lax, exhausted.

He was freezing when he staggered out of the bathroom—his skin stinging as water dripped from limp hair and a ringing in his ears—and fished the crumpled business card out of the trashcan. He dialed the number, fingers shaking so hard he almost dropped the phone, and blew out a breath he didn’t know he was holding when the line connected.

“Dr. Benedict’s office.”

“Um—” His voice came out a hoarse whisper, and his throat felt shredded, as if he’d swallowed broken glass. “This–this is Sergeant Jensen Ackles.”

“Ah, yes,” the lady on the other end said, “we’ve got you booked for this afternoon at two.”

“You–wait–I—” Right, he was supposed to call to confirm his appointment.

“Do you need to reschedule?”

Jensen squeezed his eyes shut and took a shuddering breath. “No, two is fine.”

“Great, we’ll see you then.”

The line went dead, but Jensen couldn’t pry his fingers loose to put down the phone. His heart was still pounding obnoxiously loud, but his lungs had started working, and before long Jensen was able to gather enough pieces of himself to realize he was naked and dripping a puddle on the laminate floor.

He stumbled to the kitchen sink, filled a glass, and slammed it back before pouring himself a second. The lukewarm tap-swill sat heavy in his stomach, churning with every breath, but Jensen closed his eyes and forced deep, long pulls of air into his lungs. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Rinse, repeat, until his heart stopped trying to smash a hole in his chest.          

The clock on the wall marched to the beat of its own drum. Jensen focused on that sound, matched his breathing to the sterile tick-tock as each second passed, trying to focus on breathing techniques from training that were utterly useless. He took a sip of water, swallowing despite the coppery taste, and waited until the counter stopped shifting beneath his splayed fingers.

Fucking goddamn fuck.     

***

Dr. Benedict’s office was one giant pile of haphazard paperwork. Organic was the word that came to mind. Sunlight poured through the large window behind the heavy desk and leather chair, and the warm, buttery cream walls gathered the golden glow to bathe the room in soft, soothing hues.

Not soft enough, or soothing enough, to chase away the tremors in Jensen’s hands and the ice prickling his skin.

“Sergeant Ackles?” A soft voice drifted from behind. Jensen jumped despite the gentle roll of it.

“Ah, y-yes.” Jensen spun and almost knocked the shorter man’s glasses off. “Dr. Benedict? And please, call me Jensen.”

“You can call me Rob,” Doc–Rob said and extended his hand. The handshake was firm, the grip warm, and Rob’s smile eased the nervous knots in the pit of Jensen’s stomach.

Jensen waited until Rob was seated before lowering into the leather chair in front of the desk, balancing on the edge with his jacket folded on his knees. A week ago the sight of frost tipped trees out the window greeted him every morning, now he barely needed the light jacket as he stepped out into the warm Austin afternoon. It was odd.

Rob grabbed a file and studied the contents. Had he read Jensen’s statements? Did he have access to all his debrief files? He must know what Jensen had done, what had been done to him. What if he was too damaged? What if he found Jensen unfit for duty permanently? What if they don’t want him—

“—sen. Jensen.” Rob’s voice, still soft but authoritative, demanded Jensen’s attention. “You’re hyperventilating. I need you to take a deep breath, count to three, then let it out. Slowly.”

“What the—”

“You’re having a panic attack.” Rob knelt beside him, one hand on the armrest. When did he—“Can you breathe with me?”

Jensen swallowed and tried to focus on the doctor’s lips. Words were coming through. Words that Jensen heard but couldn’t comprehend. Breathe. He needed to breathe. But his lungs froze. But Rob was right beside him, his lips parted, his chest moving. Up and down. Up and down. Jensen focused on the rise and fall until his eyes burned.

But he was doing it. Playing a horrible game of Simon Says as Rob’s voice cut through the fog and forced his chest to expand and compress.

The second time it happened, Jensen broke down and cried in Dr. Benedict’s office.

***

Going to therapy three times a week was hard. Really hard. But after breaking Josh’s nose when his brother squeezed the nape of his neck, Jensen knew he had to push through no matter how much it ate at his insides when Dr. Benedict asked hard questions.

He knew he was safe and in control of his life even if every day was a struggle, a clash between his will to live and the desire to take the easy way out. Some days were better than others, even if Jensen hardly cared to roll out of bed in the morning most of the time.

Progress was like a dance—two steps forward and one step back. It was a cool sip of air to a man drowning when Jensen pulled on a t-shirt one morning and didn’t notice the scars around his wrists until he was halfway through his second slice of toast. And when he did see them, the usual roiling nausea was replaced by _Oh, almost forgot you were there._

He got to keep both steps forward that day.   

The doctor’s office was different from two days ago. A new chair—sleek and shiny and stinking of new leather—replaced the worn old thing that swallowed the good doctor every time he took a seat. Jensen missed the old chair with its imperfections and aged lines, the supple leather that was privy to so many secrets. This new one was too pristine as it sat behind the desk, with its halo of sunlight around the gleaming edges, judging him.

“Sorry I’m late.” The door whispered opened and shut and Rob rushed to sit in his new chair. His glasses drooped low, and his hair was a dishevelled toss of dark brown streaked with grey. “Hope you didn’t wait long.”

“It’s all good,” Jensen said. “I just got here.”

“Let’s get started then.” Rob cracked open the blue folder and grabbed a pen. “Tell me about Misha Collins.”

***

The next time it happened (he’d lost count), Jensen punched the wall and busted his hand.

His eyes itched with a flakey dryness. His nose was stuffed like a Thanksgiving turkey, and his feet dragged the last few feet from the elevator to his front door. His bed beckoned, its siren song silent and deadly, but it was only one in the afternoon. Kenzie checked in on him sporadically because she didn’t want to be predictable. It also meant Jensen couldn’t sleep the afternoon away even if he desperately wanted to burrow under the sheets and hide from all his problems.

His family believed him too dedicated to his job, and after he let slip Russia was essentially a suicide mission, they kept around the clock tabs on him like he was going to walk off a cliff any moment. It was annoying in an endearing kind of way, and when Jensen started to feel really low, he could always count on a phone call to remind him he was loved. He wasn’t alone. He had everything he needed.

Maybe not everything.

It was the first time Jensen allowed himself to think about Misha. They barely touched on the details, but when Rob asked about Misha’s home, Jensen’s chest seized up; the next thing he remembered, he was laying flat on his back, staring at the stuccoed ceiling and counting backwards. They moved onto safer subjects. Panic averted, but it left a bad taste in his mouth and a itchy crawl beneath his skin.

Jensen grabbed a soda from the fridge—no booze, mom’s orders—and flopped onto the couch. He turned on the TV and flipped through the channels without interest, hoping to find a documentary about deep sea fish or weird tropical bugs or nature, but spaghetti western was the best he was going to get on a Tuesday afternoon. He finished his drink and got up to get another when the whisper-crack of a whip from the movie nailed his feet to the floor.

Fuck.

_No. Not again._

His legs turned to lead, his joints locking, holding him prisoner as the slither of the whip wrapped around his throat, and icy pain flared and spread down his back and thighs.

_Faces. So many sneering faces. His shoulders ached, his throat raw._

Jensen clutched at his chest, gasping.

_Bite of leather on his hip. The popper bright red and glistening. Blood. The taste of it, the smell of it. His blood._

_A voice. Deep and commanding and angry. So angry. Relief. No more pain. No more blood. No more faces sneering at him._

The walls loomed over him, squeezing until he was an insignificant speck. His lungs hurt, a familiar ache since he became a veteran of uncontrollable anxiety.

_Salt and velvet on his tongue. A thickness lodged down his throat. Loathing, but also a swell of pride and such gratitude. Rough fingers tangled in his hair. But the pain had stopped, and he was safe. He was safe._

A cacophony of screeches flared in his head, like fingers jabbing into his chest, accusatory. _You’re worthless. You liked it. How could you? You deserved it, all of it._ Beads of sweat broke out over his brows, dripping into his eyes to mingle with unshed tears. _Weakling. Coward. Whore._

He was those things and more. He had screamed for them, danced for them hanging off that hook, feet scrabbling. He’d performed for them, allowed himself to be defiled and violated in front of them. And then letting Misha— _the man that raped him_ —use him after, keep him as a pet, and he liked it. Liked every touch, every brush of skin, every taste of tongue, and every sweep of startling blue.

He was a goddamn whore. Deserved it. He deserved all of it.

The phone rang. Shrill, incessant, breaking the curse. Jensen moved on autopilot, and before he realized, the cool, smooth glass of the touchscreen was pressed against his ear.

“Hey, Jen.” Kenzie’s voice sounded far away. Jensen opened his mouth and gasped. “Jen? Jensen? What’s going on?”

His sister loved him.

_Whore!_

His family loved him.

_Coward!_

His brother forgave him.

 _Weakling!_     

“Fuck, Jensen. I’m coming over.”

When Kenzie let herself into the apartment, Jensen was huddled by the front door, cradling his bloodied knuckles.


	12. Chapter 12

He did what he had to do to survive.

Stripped of all the probing questions, uncomfortable answers, impromptu panic attacks, and snot-filled breakthroughs, that was the underlying theme of Jensen’s therapy. He was responding well to EMDR, and every day was one small step towards reclaiming himself. Sure, once in a while something would poke at his lizard brain and trigger a fight-or-flight response when the most threatening thing in the room was a frozen burrito so over-microwaved it was radioactive, but he learned to manage that, too.

Jensen strolled along the sidewalk, his face turned to catch the soft caress of warm sunbeams. The Starbucks was buzzing with activity. A group of students slouched on the couches in the back corner, each balancing a laptop on their knees and bobbing to music only they could hear through large headphones.

“The usual?” The girl behind the cash register smiled at him, her hand already reaching for a paper cup stacked next to the pastry case.

“You know it,” Jensen said and fished out his Starbucks card.

“What are you reading today?”

“ _The Art of War._ ” Jensen stuffed a couple dollar bills into the tip jar as the girl handed him a steaming cup with no room for cream and a pastry bag.

“That’s some heavy reading.”

“I’m feeling nostalgic.” Jensen smiled and snapped the lid on his coffee before stepping back out into the heat.

The day was hot and too humid for September, even in Austin, but Jensen didn’t mind as he crossed the street and strolled into the park. He followed the dirt path and planted himself by the foot of his favourite tree, settling in the shade.

Jensen cracked open his book. Most days it was easy to lose himself in black ink on yellowed pages, but that didn’t happen when Jensen read the same paragraph three times.  

He leaned back, his head resting against the bumps of rough tree bark, and breathed in deeply as his eyes fluttered shut. He hadn’t slept well since he got back, but the past week was particularly rough as a pair of fierce blue eyes haunted his dreams.

It took a long time for them to talk about Misha, and almost every time they did, Jensen needed to stand in the corner and count backwards until his heart rate slowed enough for him to continue. It wasn’t the pain or torture that had him panicking every time Misha’s name came up, nor the fear or dependence or even the things he had done in the dead of the night.

It was the aching hole in his chest every time his thoughts dared to wander. It was the pang of regret when he looked at the crumpled playing card hidden in the bottom of his nightstand drawer. It was crawling into bed alone every night where the sheets did a piss poor job of keeping him safe.

Some mornings he woke to his hand inching across cool sheets, searching for the solid warmth that was missing, and Jensen didn’t know how to _deal_ with that. Didn’t know how to manage the bitter taste of disappointment when he woke in the middle of the night without the reassuring breadth of Misha’s shoulders to bury his nose into.

Stockholm Syndrome. He had learned about the condition sitting in a classroom, but no amount of lectures or case studies or video interviews could have prepared him for the _realness_ of his longing. The attachment to an illusion necessary to keep himself alive was eating him from the inside, and every inch of him burned with shame when Rob asked about his time in Misha’s home.

He did everything Rob asked of him—no matter how much it hurt reliving those moments, and Jensen was becoming an expert at counting backwards—but he couldn’t separate his emotions from his memories of Misha. Couldn’t objectively take apart the pieces and not feel like he was carving out a bit of himself every time.

Memories of soothing late-night documentaries, Misha watching him make dinner, strong hands all over him, lips smothering him in kisses, they were all so intricately tied to him, woven so tightly he couldn’t disconnect from them even if he tried.

Jensen glanced at his phone and sighed. His next session with Rob wasn’t for another couple of hours, but he couldn’t focus, and it was too nice of a day to drive. With his thoughts still muddled and every breath a hair trigger away from locking in his lungs, Jensen pushed himself to his feet and headed toward Rob’s office.

***

It grew cold when the sun dipped below the treetops. Jensen blew warm air into his hands and shuffled closer to the fire pit. Orange flames writhed and flickered, twisting in silent song and everlasting dance, casting contorting shadows. Jason handed Jensen a beer—it was his only one that night—and Jensen tipped the bottle back, ignoring the twinge of guilt rippling through him. He wasn’t supposed to drink, neither with his meds nor his promise to his mother. But it was his first night hanging out with the guys since he came home, and what was Halloween without a little alcohol and some shenanigans?

Josh watched him from across the pit. Jensen shrugged and took another swig before giving his brother a nod. His tolerance wasn’t what it used to be, but one beer wouldn’t knock him cold on his ass, especially not after the giant grease fest Jason served up for dinner.

Jensen had arrived early to help hand out candy. He always loved Halloween, loved watching tiny superheroes and princesses and ghosts and monsters toddle up to the front door with their gap-toothed grins screaming “trick or treat!” Sometimes he wondered if he’d ever have kids, but with his job, it was near impossible to find someone to settle down with, let alone start a family.

The trick-or-treaters were long gone, and Jason’s son was spending the night at his grandparent’s house, leaving the place officially kid-free and ready for some drunken adult nonsense. A bag of marshmallows made its way to Jensen, but he shook his head and passed it onto Krista, who stabbed two on a stick and held it over the burning coals. Jensen sat back in his lawn chair—his beer chilling his fingers and his knees toasty by the fire—and was surprised to find his smile easy and genuine.

“Hey, guys,” a shout came from the side gate, and Jensen twisted in his chair to find Scott and Andrew jogging towards the fire, each carrying a box. “Look what we got leftover from the fourth of July!”

They tipped the boxes on their sides and Jensen’s heart dropped through his boots. He’d been doing well identifying his triggers in the past few months and tried his best to avoid them. When fireworks lit up the sky on the fourth of July, Jensen had ended up on his back in his parents’ basement, reciting the first fifty digits of pi as he struggled to breathe.

Andrew fished a lighter out of his pocket, and Josh bolted out of his chair,  his yell drowned out by the sizzle of the fuse. The tiny tube of explosives ignited and went off with a deafening crack. Jensen tensed, his grip tightening around his beer bottle as his mouth opened, preparing for that first gasp…

...but it never came. Nothing. No shortness of breath. No erratic heart beat. No paralyzing fear. Jensen stood rooted to the ground, and every pair of eyes were on him as he blinked his confusion into the night. He waited, breath hitched, lips still parted. What if it was delayed? What if his body was playing a trick on him? What if—

“Hey, you all right?” Josh’s large hand landed on his shoulder—well away from the nape of his neck—and gave him a gentle squeeze.

“Y-yeah, I think so.” Jensen swallowed around the words. “I...I’m fine.”

And he was. He was fine. No flashbacks, no phantom jolts of pain along his back and thighs. No itching beneath his skin. Only laughter as his friends went back to lighting more shit on fire. Only warmth seeping from Josh’s hand, soaking through his jacket and shirt and spreading along his skin, sinking into him until even his toes were alive with tingling heat.

Scott was handing out sparklers, and Jensen took one without so much a tremor. Jason handed him a lighter, and Jensen lit the stick and watched as sparks exploded at the tip—sparks that burned bright and pranced like glowing dust mots, like fierce fae creatures. Like light and hope and happiness bursting around him. The sparkler crackled and spluttered as it burned closer and closer to the end, like a star reaching the end of its life, but when it went out, Jensen’s star was just beginning to shine.

He waited until he was sure there was no flame left before digging through the pile on the ground. Armed with a whole box of sparklers, Jensen walked to the other end of the yard and lit one in each hand. He waved them over his head, and a shower of glowing pixies lit up the sky.        

***

Everything hurt, even places Jensen didn’t know could feel pain. He looked up, following the bruised skin of his arms, and his heart sank when his eyes found the hook.

He yanked on his bonds, and metal cuffs bit into his wrists and the chains rattled. Jensen squinted into the pitch black surrounding him. It was darkness that clung like a second skin, that crawled deep inside. The kind that fueled vivid imaginations until everything that went bump in the night was hiding in the shadows, waiting, biding its time.

A door slammed somewhere in the distance, and the sound chased away the darkness. Footsteps echoed, drawing closer, but Jensen couldn’t see anyone no matter how hard he twisted. Something cold and shapeless wrapped around him, slithered along his chest and around his throat, and Jensen finally noticed that he was naked.

The first touch was feather-light, a kiss of finger pads dancing along his spine. Jensen shuddered, and the coldness coiled tighter around his neck until every breath was a struggle. A second hand pressed into his side, stroked down his hips and around to grip the globe of his ass, and a body materialized out of thin air.

His head was bent, but Jensen knew that unruly mop of hair and recognized the black t-shirt. His suspenders hung to either side of his thighs, and when he pulled Jensen close, the taste of gun oil exploded on his tongue.

Jensen knew him. Knew his name, but he couldn’t remember no matter how hard he tried. Both hands were on his ass now, and Jensen shuddered as he twisted and bucked, his shoulders screaming as he fought the pain erupting between his legs. He tried to scream, but the cold cut off his air and shut off his voice.

The man looked up, and a plane of smooth skin where his face should be stared back at him. He screamed then, and the sound echoed back to him as he bolted upright, sheets clutched to his chest, eyes darting wildly around the apartment until his brain gathered its scattered pieces.

A dream. It was just a dream, but one he continued to have until fatigue ate away his sanity, and his mended nerves unraveled at the seams.

 _You_ _were raped._

They didn’t talk about that for a long time. Not after Jensen shared vivid details of the whipping and worked through the cold seize of panic every time he looked at the scars on his hip. Not after waking up every night for weeks gasping for air as he dreamt of drowning. Not after admitting that the smell of mildew still triggered him into a mini meltdown on a bad day.

Not even after they’d dissected the details of his time with Misha.

Maybe Rob was waiting for Jensen to bring it up, and it made Jensen sick wondering if this was a tactic born of experience.

“Tell me about your dream.” Rob flipped open the file on his desk and plucked a pen from the bamboo holder.

“It’s, um”—Jensen cleared his throat—“it’s always the same. I’m back in the interrogation room. It’s dark at first, then a door slams and someone’s...someone’s in front of me.”

“Misha Collins?” Rob stopped scribbling and glanced up at Jensen over the top of his black rimmed glasses.

“I...I guess?” Jensen looked down at his fingers and twisted the hem of his shirt. “I mean, it’s gotta be him, but…”

“But?”

“He doesn’t have a face, the man in my dreams.” Jensen looked up and forced himself to meet Rob’s eyes. “And in the dream, I can’t remember his name.”  

“Why do you think that is?”

“How the fuck do I know?” Jensen spat through clenched teeth. It was always the same fucking questions. How did he feel? What did he think? Why did he feel that way? If Jensen had all the answers, he wouldn’t be sitting in that chair, clawing at scabbed over wounds again and again until he wasn’t sure if he’d ever be whole again. “Why don’t you tell me? You’re the professional here, doesn’t Freud or some shit have some crazy insight into dreams?”

“You know that’s not how this works, Jensen,” Rob said in that same smooth, calming voice. Something snapped like a dried twig. He didn’t need this judgemental, condescending professional bullshit telling him “how this works.”

“You know what? I don’t know how this works. I don’t know how any of this works.” Jensen was on his feet, his chair toppled on the floor behind him. He was shaking, every molecule vibrating with sudden and all consuming rage, and it took every last bit of self control to not punch something. Anything. “I do my job, I risk my life for my country, and I pick up some scars along the way. I’m broken _Dr. Benedict,_  and it’s your job to fix me. So why don’t you do your job and fix me already?”

“Jensen, please—”

“Don’t! Don’t fucking patronize me.” Jensen grabbed his coat off the floor and yanked on the door on his way out. The hydraulic hinges caught the weight of his anger, and the heavy door whispered shut. Jensen turned back and slammed his fist into the solid wood.

***

It was another month before the nightmares stopped, and Jensen only stormed out of Rob’s office one other time after his initial meltdown. He knew the rape wasn’t his fault, that he was in no position to retaliate, and cooperating was the only reason he was still alive. Knowing and feeling were two very different things, however, and sometimes the feelings screamed so loudly they drowned out logic. Those were the days he would call Josh or Kenzie or his mom and cry on the phone until he was too tired to hang up properly before passing out.

That was also progress. The old Jensen would have shot himself in the foot before calling his family because his feelings were too overwhelming.

“So, in these other dreams the man has a face?” Rob capped his pen and placed it on the ever growing file before steepling his fingers, his elbows propped up on the edge of his massive desk.

He’d since had other dreams. Cold, winter forests and frost bitten fingers, and a man that always saved him right before he woke up.

“Yeah, Misha’s face.” Jensen twisted the tissue in his hands, and tiny pills of soft fibre drifted to the floor.   

Rob leaned back in his chair, which still looked so damn new even after all those months, and regarded Jensen for a long moment. “Have you ever considered perhaps it wasn’t all...for survival?”

“What are you trying to say?” Jensen’s eyes stung, and it was a struggle to keep them open as he sagged in his chair.

“You’ve made such incredible progress, but when it comes to Misha—”

“I can work through it.”

“—you can’t seem to get a grasp on your emotions. Getting through your time on base wasn’t easy”—Rob waved air quotes with both hands—“but with your time at the house, it’s like you’re talking about an entirely different person.”

“What do you mean?” Jensen pinched the bridge of his nose. He hated crying during a session.

“Just think about it, Jensen.” Rob closed the file in front of him. “Let’s call it a day. See you next week.”

***

Jensen wasn’t sure how he ended up at the Q, but there he was, a beer in one hand and his friends nowhere in sight. The music was loud, the bass vibrating up through the soles of his shoes. Psychedelic colours strobed across the dance floor, and splashes of light painted euphoric faces.

Men and women glanced his way with the unmistakable glint of interest in their eyes. Jensen ignored them and drained his beer, leaving the bottle on a nearby table before scanning the crowd once more. The mass of bodies writhed and shifted, each like a grain of sand, and the sand box was just too damn big to comb through.

Maybe he should just go home. Jensen dismissed that thought with a brush of fingers through his hair and headed for the bar instead. He’d avoided crowds long enough, and it had been more than a year since he allowed himself to let loose and have a good time. Sure, Scott and Andrew ditched him—probably off chasing tail, something he definitely did not set out to do—but that didn’t mean Jensen couldn’t just have a couple beers and enjoy the music.     

The DJ spun a mean beat, and it wasn’t long before Jensen—armed with a second beer—worked himself to the fringe of the dance floor. There was just enough alcohol in him to loosen his hips, and music soaked into him, flowing inside his veins and guiding his body until he was moving without thought.

His mind was empty, free, and he jumped to the music when the beat switched to something heavier, thumpier, and a lot more demanding. Heat spread along his back, and a pair of hands landed on his hips. Jensen’s eyes flew open and the empty bottle fell from his fingers, but his body kept moving, his hips exaggerating their sway as if welcoming the touch.

The hands pulled him back, and suddenly a wall of solid muscle pressed against him. Jensen turned his head, and warm breath tickled his cheek as he glimpsed bright blue eyes. Too bright, perhaps, under the flashing lights, and when Jensen twisted into the man’s arms and really looked at them, they were the wrong shade of blue.

But he was gorgeous, with his straight nose, perfect square jaw, and dark hair stylishly mussed. Jensen stared, and that split second was enough of a pause for Tall, Dark and Gorgeous to flash him a blinding smile. Thoughts of _what the fuck, he’s a dude_ and _what if Scott and Andrew_ _saw_ evaporated, and Jensen threw caution to the wind and smiled back.

Maybe it was the alcohol (two beers was a lot when he’d been practically sober for a year), or maybe it was the look of unadulterated _want_ in the stranger’s beautiful blue-grey eyes, but Jensen’s own need rolled through him, a full-bodied shudder. He turned around, and solid arms slid around his waist to pull Jensen against grinding hips, and the obvious hardness pressed into Jensen’s ass was a sudden jolt of desire shot straight to his dick.

He’d picked up women aplenty, but having a guy grinding into him on the dance floor was something Jensen never imagined. Yet there he was, getting drunk on the hard body pressed flush against his back, and as the music tugged them around in unison, it became more and more clear they both wanted the same thing.

It felt good to be wanted, to be touched by someone with fire under his skin, to be pinned beneath that pretty shade of blue. When was the last time Jensen held someone, even if it was just for a night? He didn’t get to make a lot of impulsive decisions these days, but fuck if he wasn’t lonely, and those lips dotting kisses along his neck promptly convinced him. He twisted around, slipping his arms around all that muscle and leaned in for a clumsy kiss before dragging the stranger off the dance floor.

Jensen smirked when he followed without question and didn’t let go until they pushed through a fire exit and into an alleyway. The warm spring air stank of greasy friers and car exhaust and a whiff of stale urine. But Jensen barely noticed as strong fingers yanked his head back and hungry lips covered his mouth.

His back hit the wall, his head cushioned by the hand cradling it, and the beautiful stranger was crowding into him, hard body pressing against him in all the right places. There was nothing gentle about the kiss, and Jensen gave as good as he got as he pushed his tongue past soft lips. God, he tasted so good, like limes and tequila and simmering promises. Fingers dug into the back of Jensen’s neck, pulling him impossibly close, and the unmistakable slide of solid muscle between his thighs lit a flame beneath something long forgotten.

His lungs burned. Jensen didn’t want to come up for air, but his new friend with the incredible smile pulled back just long enough to mutter against his jaw, “Matt. Name’s Matt.”

“J-Jensen.” His name ended in a groan when mischievous teeth nipped his ear.

“Nice to meet you, Jensen.” Matt mouthed along his jaw and down his neck, flicking a warm tongue against Jensen’s pulse point. Jensen laughed, the sound a little brittle and a lot desperate, and pulled back long enough to gaze into Matt’s lust-blown pupils.

“Wanna get outta here?” He wanted this, _needed_ it on so many levels it made Jensen dizzy just thinking about it. Or maybe it was the mouth crushing his lips again, and the way Matt was sucking on his tongue like it was his dick that had Jensen spinning.

“Thought you’d never ask.”

***

“I had fun.” Matt leaned in and planted a kiss on Jensen’s cheek before slipping Jensen his card. “Call me sometime.”

Jensen turned the card over in his fingers. “Yeah. I will.” He watched the door close on Matt’s retreating backside and leaned his forehead against the cool, varnished wood as it clicked shut. Taking a deep breath, he held it until his chest ached, and blew it out in a huff.

He didn’t do regret, couldn’t afford to, and he certainly didn’t regret the night before, or that morning, or that afternoon when Jensen showed his appreciation for the best damn pancakes he’d ever had. Matt was amazing: great cook, amazing kisser, and God when he did that thing with his tongue. Jensen shook his head and allowed himself a small smile when his cheeks burned with vivid memories of what that tongue had done not long before.

The card stared at him from the counter, embossed letters on rich, thick paper, and the thought that maybe he could make something of it crossed his mind. Jensen hadn’t thought he’d be interested in men when he got home, but nothing about last night or Matt felt awkward.

Except his eyes were the wrong shade of blue.

Jensen threw the card in the garbage and grabbed fresh sheets from the closet. He stripped the bed—his movements jerky and abrupt—and cursed loud and long when the top sheet ripped when he yanked too hard. _The wrong shade of blue_. What the hell was he thinking? Since when did he care about the colour of someone’s eyes? Jensen gathered the rough cotton into his arms and as he stomped across the apartment to the trash, his phone rang.

“Hello?” Jensen tucked the phone between his ear and shoulder.

“Sergeant Ackles?” A woman’s voice drifted through the speaker. “This is Dr. Benedict’s office.”

“Thought my next session’s tomorrow, isn’t it?”

“Yes. Dr. Benedict would like to see you today if that’s possible.”

“Everything all right?” Jensen straightened and grabbed the phone, the ripped sheet balled up in his other hand. “And yeah, I can be there in an hour.”

“Great, there’s nothing to worry about. We’ll see you soon.”

Jensen hung up and stared at his phone and the ball of cotton sheets in his hand, then bent down and pulled the card out of the trashcan.  

***

Clearwater, BC was a quaint little town surrounded by lush forests and gorgeous waterfalls. It was also as far away from home as Jensen could book last minute without his entire family kicking up a fuss.

Jensen followed the trail deeper into the campground until the number on the door matched the one hand written on the piece of paper in his hand and slipped the key into the lock. The cabin was tidy and cosy, big enough for a family of four if they optimized. Jensen dropped his duffel on the couch and wandered to the back. There was a kitchenette with a hot plate, a microwave, and a coffee maker that had seen better days. One door opened to the bathroom and another into the bedroom.

The bed was freshly made, and when Jensen flopped onto the mattress, the comforter wrapped around him like a warm hug. The sound of the forest drifted in through a cracked open window, and Jensen closed his eyes and breathed in deep, enjoying the smell of pine trees and musty earth and fragrant fabric softener. He could get used to this.

He spent the rest of the day exploring the area around the campsite, and the lady at the front entrance gave him a map with her favourite pub and restaurant circled in red. The site was fairly empty, even if it was exceptionally warm for the last week of May. That suited Jensen just fine. He needed the space, and there was nothing better than being surrounded by miles upon miles of secluded forest.

After a whole year of grueling therapy, Jensen finally got the green light to go back to work. He was ecstatic when Rob gave him the good news, but as his first day back drew closer, Jensen grew more and more restless. It had been more than a year since he’d been to work, a whole year where he stood still while the world moved on without him. Would they judge him? Pity him? Would Jensen be able to look any of them in the eyes again knowing some of them would never understand what he’d been through, what he’d given up to be back there?

Jensen shook his head and willed away the anxiety bubbling in his gut. He’d decided to spend the last two months in Canada to be away from it all, and he was damn determined to not think about work until he was back on base. He had dinner at the Gateway Grill (absolutely fantastic, the campsite lady was not exaggerating), and spent the rest of the evening curled up in the cabin with a book.

He spent the next two days hiking the trails and visiting as many waterfalls as the sunlight allowed. The forest was waking from its winter slumber, the ground thawed and a little soggy from a particularly wet spring. Jensen sat down on a fallen tree and pulled a bottle of water from his pack. He had lost track of time reading by a waterfall, it got late, and the temperature dropped as if the sun’s warmth was plucked from the air by invisible faeries.

The sky was streaked crimson, and orange and yellow tinted clouds moseyed across the darkening sky. When Jensen finally stumbled back to his cabin, he was starving. He pushed through the front door and dropped his day pack on the couch before rushing into the bathroom to wash up. His shoes were muddy, but Jensen was too hungry to care, and his stomach growled its complaint when the promise of chicken parmesan teased his tastebuds. The Gateway Grill was going to be the death of him.

He bent down to splash water on his face, and a movement at his peripheral froze the air in his lungs. Jensen tensed, every muscle coiled and ready to strike when he straightened and whirled around. Tension drained out of him for a split second before fear and bittersweet excitement flowed through him, freezing and boiling his blood simultaneously.

From the darkening living room, a pair of bright blue eyes stared at him.

“Hello, Jensen.” The voice was so familiar, and the previous year evaporated. Jensen gripped the sink behind his back, but his hands shook anyway. The intruder stepped forward into the beam of light spilling from the bathroom, and Jensen forgot how to breathe. “Surprised to see me?”

Surprised. Terrified. Exuberant. So many emotions punched through him, sucking the air from his lungs, stealing every last word from his lips, and all Jensen had left was the one to utter.

“Misha.”


	13. Chapter 13

“Miss me?” Misha grinned, but the smile didn’t reach his eyes. 

“Not even a little.”

“Don’t lie to me,” Misha  replied , his voice low, chilling.  “You forget who you’re dealing with; you forget that I own you.”

“I belong to no one.” Jensen  realized the lie as soon as he uttered the words. Misha did own him, had laid claim to him they day they met, and even after a year, Misha still had a  hold on him. 

“Ah, but you were always a liar.” Misha’s  smile twisted into something ugly and his eyes narrowed. He rocked forward; the shift was all the warning Jensen had before Misha lunged for him.

Jensen jumped back, and Misha’s hand missed his throat by a hair. The sink dug into Jensen’s back, trapping him in the small bathroom as Misha came at him with a jab. Jensen brushed the fist away, following in with a left hook, but Misha blocked it with his forearm, grabbed Jensen’s wrist, and used his momentum to spin Jensen around. Something  hard cracked against the back of Jensen’s right knee and he fell, landing on his face with a painful crack as his left arm twisted behind his back. A sharp,  heavy weight dug into his wrist between his  shoulder blades . 

“You know, you should really consider going into acting,” Misha  said lightly and shifted more weight onto his knee, crushing Jensen’s wrist and squeezing the air from his lungs. Jensen’s shoulder screamed, but he gritted his teeth against the pain and prayed Misha wouldn’t pop the joint.  “Or prostitution, I mean, you’re pretty good at faking it, and it pays a lot better than the military.”

Jensen turned his head to the side and pushed off his right elbow, only to fall back as  nauseating pain shot down his spine. Misha ground his fingers into the pressure point in his nape, and Jensen thrashed like a man drowning as he screamed into the hand wrapped around his mouth. 

“Or maybe you weren’t faking it,” Misha mouthed hotly against Jensen’s ear, and the pressure let up just enough for Misha’s words to cut through the fog.  “Maybe you really are just a cheap slut, getting off on my dick.”

Every word cut deep, and they were all true.  Especially since Jensen still stroked himself to memories of Misha’s  touch . It stung hearing Misha parrot what Jensen already believed, but it didn’t make him any less angry. He never asked to become a wanton slut, never wanted to be kept as a house pet. Misha made him that way. 

Jensen clenched his jaw and snapped his head back, connecting with Misha’s face with a sickening crunch. A pained grunt, and the weight on his back wobbled. Jensen braced his right arm, pulled up his right knee, and heaved as hard as he could. Misha rolled off him, but Jensen was ready and lunged. They collided with the wall, and Jensen kicked off the surface to roll Misha beneath him. He reared up, knees pinning Misha’s arms to his sides, his fists returning every blow Misha had ever delivered with double the force. 

His fists rained down on Misha, but Misha took them without so much a grunt. Misha was always in control, never a fucking strand of hair out of place, always the  good soldier . It infuriated Jensen, and he swung harder until his knuckles ached, until he was gasping for breath and his eyes stung. He was crying, and Misha just stared up at him with those goddamn blue eyes. 

“Are you finished?” Misha’s right eye was swelling shut, his lips bloody and his  breaths wheezing . Jensen pushed up on his knees, and Misha’s arms slipped free. He grabbed the front of Jensen’s shirt and yanked, and Jensen’s face snapped into Misha’s forehead. 

Stars exploded behind his eyes with white hot stabbing needles, and Jensen doubled over as he clutched at his nose. He toppled into the wall with a groan, his mouth filling with a coppery tang as blood dripped down his throat. 

Jensen scrabbled at the wall to get up, but his legs refused to  listen. He slumped back and blinked through tears at the prone figure lying inches away from his boots, not even trying to get up. Misha’s breath came in soft rasps as one blue eye stared at him. 

The sun dipped below the trees, shadows chasing away light, and the cabin hushed in monochrome around the pale glow of yellow light in the bathroom. Jensen leaned his head back and  touched his nose gingerly. It was swollen but not broken, thank God, and the bleeding was already slowing as he held the bottom of his t-shirt against his nostrils. 

“...Why?” Misha’s voice cut through the blood pounding in his ears.

“Why what?” Jensen winced. 

“You knew it was a trap, an ambush.”

“No, shit, Sherlock.”

“Why did you stop me?”

Jensen swallowed and licked his bottom lip before pulling it between his teeth,  contemplating the  question and trying to come up with an  answer that wouldn’t  reveal too much. He  knew exactly why he did it, but did he really want to give Misha that power over him?  “I don’t know.”

“Don’t fucking bullshit me.”

“It’s...it’s stupid.” Jensen tried to  look away, but his head swam when he tried to move, so he sat there and stared at the man lying by his feet. 

“Stupid? You made me a traitor, a real fucking traitor.” Misha  spat . He sat up—his breath shallow and sharp—and cradled his right side. He scrubbed his free hand across his face and the fingers came away covered in blood. 

“Thought you were used to that.”

“Fuck you. It was bad enough I didn’t kill you” —Misha rolled onto his hip and shuffled over to slumped against the wall next to Jensen— “but when I didn’t show up that morning they all thought I was in on it. Have you been hunted, Jensen? Hunted by the same men that used to have your back? Hiding like an animal? Always on the run?”

Jensen opened his mouth but no words came out. He hadn’t allowed himself to think about Misha or his predicament. Hadn’t considered the consequences of keeping Misha home that day, safe and alive.  

“Of course not. You fucking Americans and your silly war games. You go to other countries and play soldier, then you come home and you’re some big fucking hero.” Misha closed his good eye and took a weak, shuddering breath.  “How could you, Jensen? How could you do this to me?”

“How could  _ I _ do this to  _ you _ ? After what you did to me?” Jensen  pivoted to glare at Misha, but he still had his eyes closed, and the pounding behind Jensen’s eyes  intensified .

“I saved your fucking life.”

“And I saved yours!”

Misha snorted, the  sound turning into a grimace. 

***

Jensen yanked Misha’s underwear and sweatpants down his hips.  “Do you need me to hold that for you too?”

“Not like you haven’t touched it before.” Misha glared at him before turning back to the task at hand. He pushed Jensen away, took a short breath, then gripped the sink with one hand and aimed with his other. 

At the  sound of a stream hitting the toilet bowl, Jensen crossed his arms and stepped outside the bathroom, his head leaning against the doorframe as he waited. After  discovering that he’d broken two of Misha’s ribs, Jensen couldn’t in good conscience kick Misha out on his ass. Misha refused a doctor, and the barely  detectable quiver in his voice gave Jensen pause. 

“You just going to stand there all day?” Misha groused and shuffled past him.

“You can’t sit on your ass all day,” Jensen  said as he followed Misha back to the couch.  “You need to move. If you get a lung infection, I’m taking you to the hospital, and knowing this town, that probably involves a helicopter ride.”

“Fucking Americans, so judgemental. They have a hospital here; I saw it on my way in.” Misha held his ribs with one hand and gripped the couch arm with his other as he lowered himself gingerly. By the time he settled, his forehead beaded with sweat as he tried to catch his breath. 

“At least take your damn drugs.” Jensen  sloshed down a glass of water and two green gel tablets. 

“You don’t take ibuprofen for the first two days; it hinders healing.” Misha glared at Jensen.  “Don’t they fucking teach you guys anything?” He grabbed the bag of frozen peas already wrapped in a towel and pressed it against his ribs. 

“You know what? Be miserable. I’ll be outside if you need to take a piss again.”

***

It had been a week since Misha came crashing into the cabin and back into his life, and Jensen was no closer to sorting through the plum pudding of emotions warring inside his head. It didn’t help that Misha was literally bed-bound with an injury that wouldn’t heal any time soon. They settled into a strained truce, with Jensen delivering Misha three meals a day and helping him up to use the bathroom, and in turn, Misha only glared daggers at him occasionally.  

Misha stared at him when he  thought Jensen wasn’t looking, and Jensen could never figure out whether Misha wanted to murder him or strip him bare. His body remembered being the focus of all that  intensity , though, and his blood boiled each time he caught Misha looking. 

Jensen sighed and slid the grilled cheese sandwich onto a plate. The bowl of tomato soup was still bubbling when he pulled  it out of the microwave, and Jensen poured a tall glass of water before setting everything on a tray and carrying it into the bedroom. Misha  rested against the headboard, a pillow wedged behind his lower back, and he  looked up from his book when Jensen toed the door open with a creak. 

“Lunch is ready,” Jensen  said as he placed the tray over Misha’s lap. 

“Thank you.” Misha laid his book to the side and picked up a triangle of his sandwich. He ate with the same  intensity he did everything else, his jaw shifting as he chewed. The clink of spoon against ceramic and the crunch of crusty bread echoed in the small bedroom, and Jensen couldn’t help the warmth unfurling in his chest as he watched Misha eat. 

It was the same  touch of giddiness as when Jensen watched Misha eat his cooking the first time all those months ago, under a different roof, tucked inside a different forest. Suddenly the room closed in on him, and some  invisible vacuum sucked out all the oxygen. The edges of his vision grew fuzzy, and Jensen clenched his fists, muttered something he couldn’t remember, and excused himself.

He pushed past the front door, his chest burning as nausea threatened to overwhelm him, and forced his lungs to work as he counted backwards from a hundred. Gulps of fresh air held back the tide of panic until Jensen’s mind  cleared and his hands stopped shaking. As he reached fifty, the pounding in his ears receded enough for the buzzing of the forest to filter through, soothing the frayed edges of his nerves. 

The irony of what was happening and what had happened a year ago mocked him, and Jensen deserved all the ridicule for how fucked he was in the head. But the truth was he missed Misha, and it wasn’t just the sex either. He missed the domesticity, missed the comfort of belonging, missed that feeling of being appreciated and wanted and cared for. 

He thought he’d worked past that, tricked himself into believing maybe, with time, he could be fixed. He needed to be fixed, to be whole again so he could move on with his life. The choice was his now, and Jensen needed to to be stronger, to do the right thing, and shut this man out of his mind and his life once and for all.  

***

Jensen pushed into the cabin loaded with grocery bags. The Gateway Grill was  phenomenal , but eating there every night for two months would guarantee he’d never fit into his uniform again. The kitchenette couldn’t  hold a candle to Misha’s fancy kitchen, but one could do a lot with a hotplate and a microwave.  

“Could you quit your pacing so I can re-tape your ribs?” Jensen put away the last of their groceries in the fridge and walked to the front of the cabin with a roll of medical tape. 

“A couple weeks ago you were bitching at me for sitting too much.” Misha winced as he lowered himself onto the couch and rolled up his shirt. Beneath strips of tape, the right side of Misha’s chest was covered in a mosaic of blue and purple and green, the skin still slightly too warm to the  touch . 

Jensen knelt by the couch and resisted the urge to roll his eyes. He peeled off the old strips of tape, ripped new ones, and stuck the ends to the coffee table until he had enough to apply them to Misha’s ribs. He could feel Misha’s eyes on him, following his every move, and Jensen flushed under the scrutiny. 

“The swelling has gone down,” he  said and rolled up the used tape into a ball before reaching for the bottle of Advil on the living room table.  “How’s the pain?”

“Manageable.”

Jensen handed Misha two green gel tablets.  “Wait, I’ll get you some water.”

Misha grabbed Jensen’s shoulder, stopping him from getting up.  “No need, I can swallow them dry.” He said and popped the tablets in his mouth.

Jensen watched the bob of Misha’s Adam’s apple, acutely aware of Misha’s hand still gripping his shoulder, and the heat of it left a brand on Jensen’s skin through his shirt. Misha looked down at him, his expression  unreadable save for the pit of expanding darkness surrounded by the  crystal blue of his eyes. 

Time ground to a halt, and the world faded into swirling colours, blending until everything was indistinguishable except for the sharp outlines of Misha sitting in front of him. Jensen had done everything in his power to avoid this moment, yet there he was, on his knees with Misha’s hand on him, and suddenly weeks worth of anxiety and uncertainty melted away like snow on a warm spring day.  

Jensen blinked, and the spell  broke as he shrugged Misha’s hand from his shoulder. He made to get up, but Misha’s hand snapped back to fist in the front of Jensen’s t-shirt. Jensen startled, his hands moving on their own to grip Misha’s wrist, and his breath hitched when Misha leaned forward, crowding into Jensen’s personal space. 

Misha was so close Jensen could  see himself in the storm raging behind all that blue, and Misha was moving closer still.  “Stay.” Misha’s breath tickled Jensen’s lips, and then his mouth pressed against them and his tongue  pushed past the seam. 

The kiss ate at his resolve, and every sweep of Misha’s tongue was a chink in the armour Jensen had so carefully crafted around himself, until the whole thing came crumbling down. He didn’t want to kiss back, but Misha tasted so  _ good _ , and the familiarity of it all swept Jensen under like a riptide. 

He opened his mouth, and Misha needed no written  invitation as he surged forward, his teeth pulling and nipping as his tongue thrust into Jensen’s mouth in filthy strokes. Jensen moaned into Misha’s mouth, his lungs struggling as Misha sucked the very breath from him. Misha’s mouth was hot, his tongue demanding, and everything about this was  intoxicating as Jensen surrendered. 

“Mine,” Misha  growled against Jensen ' s lips, and Jensen’s eyes flew open as he yanked his bottom lip from between Misha’s teeth. His lip throbbed, but the pain only fueled the sudden wave of rage as Jensen scrambled to his feet. Apart from Misha’s glistening lips—a little redder and plumper than usual—he was as composed as ever. It pissed Jensen off even more. 

“Don’t you fucking do that again.” His voice cracked, but Jensen didn’t care as he ran shaky fingers through his hair before storming out of the cabin.  

***

June rolled in  uncharacteristically dry and sunny. Jensen stretched and sank lower in his lounge chair, his sun hat tipped forward to spread its shade over his book. Not that it mattered, Jensen was hardly reading as he sat brooding in the sun, his mood no better improved by the incessant shrill of bird song. 

Looking after someone with broken ribs was not how Jensen imagined spending his vacation, and that someone being Misha made the whole ordeal that much worse. Misha hadn’t tried anything again since that last kiss, and Jensen was loathed to admit that he was grateful for it. If it were up to him, Jensen wasn’t sure if he’d be able to resist, and that left him perpetually irritable.

They bickered constantly, from stupid things like who ate the last of the chicken parmesan to Misha asking big questions that gave Jensen massive, pounding headaches. The chair next to him creaked, and Jensen looked up to see Misha lower himself into it, his hands braced on the chair arms. Misha was moving better now that he’d had almost three weeks of rest, but anything that required core strength was still a struggle, even if the crazy bastard was insisting on push ups everyday.  

The lazy afternoon moseyed on, and the lazy buzzing of the forest broke the strained  silence between them. Jensen couldn’t even remember what they were fighting about that morning, and he was thankful that the steady thud, thud, thud behind his eyes was finally passing. The  silence between them became more  companionable as the afternoon wore on. It was  hard to stay mad when Jensen was warm and relaxed under the gentle caress of the sun. Misha must have  felt the same, because when Jensen  looked over again, Misha  had slumped over in his lounger, asleep. 

Jensen took a deep breath and trapped it in his lungs as he allowed himself to finally look at Misha. His hair was longer, an even more unruly mop. The lines in the corners of his eyes eased with slumber. He looked younger, more carefree, and a whole lot less murderous. The familiar swirl of warmth in his chest threatened to consume him as he drank Misha in. Feelings he’d tried so hard to bury and forget clawed their way to the surface, and Jensen hadn’t realized just how much he missed Misha until now. 

Life would be so much simpler if he could forget about Misha, work past these feelings born out of  necessity , and move onto better, safer things. Like Matt. Matt who was supermodel gorgeous and as  interesting with his clothes on as he was amazing stripped naked and spread out like dessert in Jensen’s bed. If it were only that easy, he wouldn’t have needed a year’s worth of therapy  to still be a jumbled mess when it came to the possessive asshole sitting a few feet away from him. 

He had resigned himself to the fact that perhaps he would never get over Misha, maybe even knew this on some subconscious level when he was held captive. Jensen thought he’d never see Misha again after his extraction, but the thought of knowing Misha was alive somewhere dulled the ache in his chest. Time healed all wounds, and Jensen was counting on it to do its magic until he was too numb to feel the pain. 

And then the bastard came crashing back into his life with all the grace of a wrecking ball, and Jensen was too stunned to even scream as the scab tore off, leaving the wound sore and oozing blood.  

“You hurt me, you know.”

Jensen was so wrapped up in his own thoughts he didn’t notice when Misha woke up.  “What?”

“You broke my heart,” Misha repeated slowly, eyes trained on Jensen like a laser point.  “I was...I actually thought maybe we had something. Something real, beyond all the bullshit.”

“Bullshit.” Jensen’s chest seized and his mouth dried up like a desert.  “You–you’re fucking with me right?”

“Why would I? What’s the point?” There was no malice in Misha’s eyes, no hatred, only defeat and hurt and  maybe a  glimmer of hope . Jensen swallowed and  looked away. This wasn’t happening. It was easier to believe Misha hated him, had come to kill him, but this confession left Jensen reeling from the  possibilities that — 

“No! You don’t get to–you can’t—” Jensen’s voice rang, cutting through the buttery soft cocoon of silence surrounding them. He wouldn’t allow himself that line of thought, couldn’t afford to even if he wanted to believe what Misha was saying. He wasn’t a prisoner—a victim—anymore. He had his life back, and he wouldn’t give it to his tormentor in a neat little package. Any choice he made now would be on him, and he had to make the right choice, the only choice, even if it felt wrong in every way. “You raped me! I was your prisoner.” 

“You hit me with a frying pan.” Misha leaned forward and held Jensen’s glare with his own.  “Besides, the first time was perhaps a tad—”

“A  _ tad _ ?”

“—forceful. But the rest of it,” Misha  said , his lips twisted in a sneer,  “you enjoyed as much as I did. Begged for it even—”

“I can’t  _ believe _ this.”

“—and you begged me to hurt you. What does that say about you,  _ Jensen _ ?” He spat Jensen’s name like it was toxic, acid on his tongue, and he couldn’t  scrape the syllables off fast enough.   

“I can’t believe you’re sugar coating this. I spent a whole year in therapy trying to fix what you broke.” Jensen was shouting, and  maybe there were campers around that might  hear him, but so what?  “What does that say about me? I’m not the monster that tortured people for a living.” He clamped his mouth shut as soon as the words flew off his tongue, but it was too late. 

Misha’s eyes hardened into blue pebbles, his voice strained as if it was the only thing holding back a flood of violence and he  asked ,  “If I’m such a monster, then why did you save me?”

“Who cares?” Jensen threw his hands up in the air and huffed  indignantly .  “It doesn’t matter anymore.”

“The hell it doesn’t.”

“I don’t have to answer you. I don’t owe you shit.” Jensen sprung out of his chair and headed for the cabin. He’d already made up his mind—d ecided what was best for himself—and he shouldn’t  feel like every step was one in the wrong direction when he walked away from Misha. Who the hell did Misha  think he was showing up just when Jensen finally had a  grasp on his life, only to shatter the illusion that Jensen’s glued himself back together? Fuck him and the horse he rode in on.  

Jensen yanked on the door, but it slammed back into the frame with a jarring shudder. Misha crowded against him, one large hand spread against the knobby wood, trapping Jensen between the door and a  solid wall of  suffocating heat. Jensen’s breath stuttered, every muscle coiled tight when soft lips brushed his ear.

“I know you still have feelings for me.”

“Don’t flatter yourself.”

Misha’s breath caressed the back of Jensen’s neck, his free hand trailing up Jensen’s back, the  touch scorching through the thin cotton of Jensen’s t-shirt. Jensen clenched his jaw, teeth grinding until the stutter of bone drowned out the blood pounding in his ears. 

“Is that how you want to do this? You want me to force the truth out of you?”

Jensen closed his eyes and tried to  breathe through his nose, but Misha’s hips were grinding against his ass, and his hand circled around to slip beneath the front of Jensen’s shirt. The  touch was  electrifying , and Jensen couldn’t help the sharp inhale as his breath hitched and his back arched. He hated that he wanted this, wanted Misha’s  hands on him, mapping him, claiming him. Hated that desire tugging at him like persistent waves, waiting to drag him under.

The hand  traveled higher, calloused fingers brushed against each of his nipples, then trailed back down to rest on the waistband of his jeans.  “You always liked it like this, didn’t you?” Misha  whispered , his voice like far-away thunder rolling through Jensen. He opened his mouth to protest, but Misha spun him around and cut off his words with his lips. 

Misha’s tongue plundered into him with ruthless strokes until Jensen was dizzy with overwhelming sensations. It was happening so quickly, his senses converging to the pinpoint that was all Misha. And Misha tasted amazing, the perfect blend of bitter and sweet and sin and purity. Jensen wedged his hands between them, his palms pressing into hard pecs, and for a moment he remembered laying his head against that solid chest, that rock, and how safe he felt with Misha’s heart beating beneath him.    

“N-no, please–Misha—” Jensen leaned back, his head thudding against the door. God, it  felt so good, but it was all wrong. Misha’s grip in his hair, his fingers fumbling with Jensen’s fly, his teeth and lips and tongue marking along Jensen’s jaw and down his neck. Jensen wanted all that, but not like this. Not when every  scrape of teeth and flick of tongue cheapened the desires Jensen had tried to bury, feelings that were even now bubbling forth until he was drowning in them.  “S-stop…”

Either Misha didn’t  hear him, or  ignored his pleas. His lips  traveled along Jensen’s collarbone, sucking a trail  across the thin skin, and a hand pushed down the front of Jensen’s shorts. _ No–wait–he can’t–fuck— _ Jensen choked back a sob and shoved as  hard as he could, and the sudden loss of Misha’s weight left him  disoriented . 

“I said stop!” Jensen scrubbed shaky fingers down his face, then up through his hair and took a deep, shuddering breath. He needed a moment to regroup and  think . Needed a second to figure out just what the hell was happening—

Misha swallowed, and the gleam of lust faded from his eyes as his jaw set in a harsh line. He pushed past Jensen into the cabin and re-emerged minutes later with his backpack before taking off into the woods without a backward glance. 

By the time Jensen’s brain caught up to what just happened, Misha was an elongated dot in the thick of the forest. Jensen muttered a string of curses and took off after him.


	14. Chapter 14

The sky was a roiling blanket of thick, dark clouds, and a gust of evening wind chased away the warmth from the afternoon. Misha tasted rain in the air as he pushed on, booted feet snapping twigs and branches as he stomped through the forest. He knew it was stupid trying to cut through unfamiliar wilderness with rapidly fading daylight, but he didn’t care. He needed to get away, somewhere, anywhere, as long as it was far away from Jensen.

It wasn’t the anger—Jensen angry had always been beautiful to behold—but the way his eyes dimmed with fear that had cut through Misha. Jensen was vibrant, defiant, and even when he was afraid it was laced with indignation. He was never so fearful he oozed self-doubt like it was a physical wound, like Misha’s very presence was bleeding him dry.

For a year, Misha thought about nothing but ending Jensen’s life. He dreamt about watching the light fade from those green eyes, but when he finally laid eyes on Jensen again, a part of him he thought dead sprung back to life. He loved Jensen, more than he’d dared to love anything, and that love sealed Misha’s fate. His resolve had dissipated like smoke when his gazed fell upon Jensen’s silhouette.

In that small bathroom, with Jensen cocooned in a soft halo of glowing light, Misha had known he’d never be able to hurt Jensen again. And yet Misha’s very existence was a painful reminder that he had hurt Jensen in unspeakable ways, and he was still causing Jensen pain. Why couldn’t he be more like Volkov? Smooth, charming, lovable Volkov who had chipped away the ice fortress Misha had build around himself after he’d completed his mission and gone back to Russia.

The sound of footsteps cut through his thoughts. Misha glanced over his shoulder and cursed as Jensen gained on him. He shouldered his backpack with a grunt and cradled his side, his feet moving as quickly as the pain and the dying light allowed. He didn’t want to see Jensen, couldn’t face him even if losing him again was the last thing he wanted.

Jensen didn’t need him—never needed him—and it was time Misha accepted that.

A fat drop of rain splashed on his face, followed by another. Trees swayed all around him, branches tugged to and fro by invisible hands as wind swept between the gaps of the forest. Misha brushed the back of his hand across his cheek, and it came away with more moisture than two measly raindrops.

“-isha.” Jensen’s voice carried to him on the coattails of a gust of wind. Misha gritted his teeth against the pain in his ribs and ran. Each breath hurt worse than the last, but it was a price Misha was willing to pay to atone for his sins. Jensen was better off without him. Volkov was safer with him out of the picture. Misha had gotten used to being alone while on the longest undercover mission of his life; he could get used to it again living as a nobody in British Columbia.

He just needed to get through these woods and get away from green eyes that were just as beautiful.

“Misha!” A hand grabbed Misha’s shoulder, strong fingers fisting a knot around Misha’s shirt. “For the love of god, stop!”

Misha struggled, but his ribs were jagged and his breath sticky in his lungs. He spun around, vision blurring, and panicked. Jensen’s mouth fell open but Misha cut him off. “It would’ve been easier if I’d killed you!”

“Misha…” Jensen’s grip tighten as he stared at Misha. The forest dimmed, the swaying trees fading into muted hues, as if all the colour had been sucked right out of them and infused into Jensen’s eyes.  

“I hated you. You ruined my career, my life. I thought about nothing but killing you for a whole damn year.” Misha was shouting, but his voice sounded far away. What was he saying? He promised himself he wouldn’t hurt Jensen anymore, and yet there he was, spewing threats and nonsense. He was poison. Jensen was right to tell him to fuck off.   

“Then why didn’t you?” The grip on his shoulder loosened, but Jensen’s fingers still clutched at his shirt, as if Misha would float away if he let go.

“Fuck you, Jensen. Fuck you.” More fat raindrops splashed against his skin; the rain was coming down harder and plastered his hair to his scalp. Water dripped into his eyes, and Misha pretended to not taste the faint bitterness of diluted tears.

“You love me?” Jensen’s expression was unreadable as he threw his hands in the air. “You actually love me.”

“You already made your choice.” Misha shook his head as he turned and continued to walk away.

“Wait,” Jensen called out, a hint of exasperation mixed in that simple syllable, and jogged up to block his way. “Can you just stop for a second and let me think?”

“Why?” Misha tried to sidestep, but Jensen matched every step until Misha wanted to punch him in the face.  

“God, why are you so fucking pig headed?”

“Well, it’s obvious you don’t want me.”

“No fucking shit. You just forced yourself on me again.”

“Forced myself—” Misha rolled his eyes. “That was hardly—”

“Why don’t you ask me?” It wasn’t the words, but the flash of pure rage that lit up Jensen’s eyes like green witch fire that stunned Misha into silence. “All this time, if you actually asked, maybe you’d know what I want.”

Misha blinked water from his eyes, not that it helped, but it gave him something to do while his brain raced to process Jensen’s words. He never asked because he feared the answer. Deep down, he knew Jensen resented him, knew any sane person would take one look at Misha and run screaming for the hills. He was damaged, and he used cruelty as a mask to hide it, used force to get what he wanted. There was no chance of rejection that way.

And Misha couldn’t handle rejection from Jensen, not when Jensen’s smile was the last thing he thought about before falling asleep, and his s eyes were the first thing haunting him every morning. He never asked because he never believed Jensen would actually want him.

“Well, what do you want, Jensen?” Misha’s voice was so soft he was sure the rain washed it away. But Jensen must have heard him. Instead of a response, Jensen ate the distance between them in hungry strides and crushed his lips to Misha’s.

Misha gasped, and Jensen swallowed it as he cradled Misha’s face in both hands; the intimate touch was all Misha needed to brush away all his self-doubt. He opened his mouth and the sweet taste of Jensen flooded his senses, leaving him _wanting_.

Jensen tasted different, but underneath the flavours of assertive passion was still that honey sweetness of the Jensen Misha knew so well. Misha’s eyes fluttered closed and his hands found their way to cup Jensen’s jaw and the back of Jensen’s neck. Rain water slicked between his fingers and trickled into his mouth; it was cleansing, and the freshness tasted like a new beginning.

“I’ve missed you,”Jensen gasped into his mouth, his fingers trailing down to twist into the front of Misha’s shirt. “So fucking much.” And his mouth was right back on Misha’s, lips bruising against Misha’s teeth and tongue swiping in desperate strokes.

Misha had never been kissed like this. Perhaps no one dared to lay claim to him the way Misha laid claim to everything he wanted. Jensen was claiming him now as his lips mouthed against the corner of Misha’s lips before nipping his way along Misha’s jaw and down his throat.

His skin was burning, his blood boiling despite the cooling rain, and Misha wasn’t ashamed of the noise he made when Jensen’s tongue swiped across the row of teeth marks he’d left along the curve of Misha’s neck. Misha dropped his backpack, and the rough bark of a tree dug into his back as Jensen shoved eager hands beneath the hem of his shirt.

It felt amazing to be touched, to be wanted like Jensen needed him to survive. Misha leaned back against the tree trunk and let the rain wash over him even as Jensen’s tongue licked the drops from his skin. One eager hand found its way between Misha’s legs, and Jensen looked up through thick, wet lashes as he dropped to his knees. Misha’s breath caught in his throat, and memories of the first time Jensen looked up at him through wet lashes punched through him like a battering ram.

 _No, not_ _like_ _this._

Jensen was working at the fly of Misha’s jeans when Misha gripped his hands and pried his fingers away from the zipper. The flash of confusion in those lust-blown green eyes doused the flames beneath Misha’s skin. Misha pulled Jensen to his feet and cradled Jensen’s cheeks in his hands, his thumbs brushing across a galaxy of glittering freckles.

“What’s wrong?” Jensen’s lips were plump and Misha couldn remember just how pretty they looked stretched around his cock. He cleared his head with a shake and bit the inside of his cheek.

“Nothing.” Misha brought his lips to Jensen’s and punctuated the word with a chaste kiss. Jensen sighed, the huff of air swirled in contentment around them, and the glint of desire crept back in the green halos of his eyes. “Just...just not here.”

A year ago, Misha had wanted to break this magnificent wild stallion. A year later, it was Misha who was tamed, and he wouldn’t have it any other way.

Jensen wrapped his hands around Misha’s and pulled them from his cheeks. His crooked smile was challenging, and when he tugged, Misha followed him back down the trail without a fight. Every few steps Jensen would turn around and plant a kiss on Misha’s mouth, on his cheek, on the knuckles of both hands, and with every brush of lips a little more tension drained out of Misha.    

Misha was never as happy to see their little cabin as he was right then, and when Jensen ushered them inside, Misha could barely wait for the door to close before pressing his lips to Jensen’s again.

The clattering percussion of summer rain accompanied them across the living room. Jensen pulled back to work the backpack from Misha’s shoulder, then darted in for soft, languid kisses as he worked open Misha’s buttons before peeling off the wet shirt.

A trail of rain-soaked clothes led to the bedroom like Hansel’s breadcrumbs. They stood naked by the bed, and suddenly Misha flushed as an unfamiliar wave of unease washed over him. He'd been naked in front of Jensen before, but never so utterly bare, and he shrank beneath the weight of his vulnerability. Jensen’s fingers danced along Misha’s chilled skin, calloused pads tracing faded bruises and even more faded scars before trailing down the valleys of Misha’s abs.

“So beautiful.”

Misha wanted to counter that Jensen was more beautiful, that he was the best thing that had ever happened to Misha. But the words got jumbled on the tip of his tongue, and Misha just grunted as a fresh wave of embarrassment threatened to overwhelm him. Jensen smiled, a knowing little quirk of lips, and Misha drowned in the depth of Jensen’s dimples.

The bed was softer than Misha remembered, the sheets warmer wrapped around them with Jensen tucked in his arms. Misha still wanted Jensen’s hands on him, wanted Jensen’s lips around him, his pleasures screamed to the heavens as they moved as one entity. But right now Misha just wanted to hold Jensen, smell the rain in his hair, and snuggle as close as his skin allowed.

He waited until Jensen’s breathing slowed before closing his eyes.

***

“I stopped you that morning to protect you.”

Misha’s fingers froze mid-page flip and he looked up to find Jensen studying him from across the picnic blanket.

“Why?” Misha slipped his makeshift bookmark between the pages (people that dogear books deserve their own special layer in hell) and returned Jensen’s gaze. Misha knew why Jensen did it—the past week spent wrapped in each other’s arms had ensured that Misha would never misunderstand Jensen’s feelings for him again—but he still wanted to hear Jensen say it, wanted to bask in the warmth of Jensen’s fierce love for him every chance he could get. And his time was running out. One more week and Jensen would get on a plane and go back to his job, his family, his life.

Misha didn’t belong in that picture, and he wouldn’t force Jensen to choose.

“Couldn’t stand the thought of you being gone. Dead.” Jensen’s smile wavered, and his eyes dropped to hide behind bashful lashes.

“So, you _did_ miss me.”

“Maybe a little.” Jensen cleared his throat and peeked up with a smile. It was a shy twitch of lips and the blush spreading from the collar of his shirt darkened the stray freckles on his neck, but his expression was open and honest.

Sunbeams flittered through the cracks of the forest, and Misha tucked his hands behind his head as he laid down on the soft blanket, contentment settling over him. He wanted to bottle this moment so he could look back on this afternoon and remember the taste of perfection when the nights grew too lonely, or when he missed Jensen enough to want to try crawling back into Jensen’s life.

He had asked Jensen what he wanted, but he couldn’t give Jensen what he deserved. He was a fugitive, and there was nothing he could offer Jensen but a lifetime of hide and seek with people who wouldn’t hesitate to shoot on sight. Misha never understood the whole _if you love someone, set them free_ mentality until this moment, when he turned his head and the mere sight of Jensen filled his chest to bursting with equal parts passion and serenity.

Misha couldn’t doom Jensen to the life of a wanted man, wouldn’t allow it even if it killed him.

Jensen put down his book and crawled over the remains of their lunch to tuck himself into Misha’s side laying a hand on Misha’s still tender ribs. “Still hurt?”

“Nothing I can’t handle.” Misha dipped his chin and planted a soft kiss on the mop of shaggy brown hair. “You’ll need a haircut before you go back to work.”

Jensen tensed, and his tracing fingers stopped mid-circle on Misha’s chest for a second before he heaved himself onto his knees. He straddled Misha’s hips, and Misha hummed as he roamed his hands up and down Jensen’s muscular thighs.  

“I’ve been thinking about this.” Jensen’s brows furrowed, and his mouth pressed into a thin, straight line.

“About what?” The hole in Misha’s chest spasmed. So Jensen had also been thinking about the futility of their situation.

“You know”—Jensen waved his hands in the space between them—“about us.”

Misha’s hands slid up and rested on Jensen’s hips, his fingers digging a little harder than necessary. He didn’t want to let go just yet, wanted to savour the last week of what was possibly the most glorious summer he’d ever had. But things were coming to a head, and if Misha wanted to make a clean break, this was his chance. “Jen, there’s no us.”   

Green eyes widened and Jensen’s muscles locked up beneath Misha’s palms. “What?” He fell forward and planted his hands on either side of Misha’s head. “The hell are you talking about?”

“There’s no us, Jensen,” Misha said, grateful for the lack of emotion in his voice. Jensen would pick up on even the slightest hint of hesitation. “I’m a wanted man, both in the states and Russia. If I go home with you, they’ll lock me up or ship me back to Russia, and honestly, I don’t know which would be worse.”

“Why ask me what I want if you already decided for me?” Jensen’s voice was soft, too soft, and for the first time Misha felt a shiver of fear roll down his spine. Jensen was a trained killer, just like Misha.

“Just being realistic, Jen.” Misha picked his words as if picking his way through a field of landmines. Jensen’s eyes glowed, an ominous shade of green that held the weight of the entire forest, and that weight was pressing down on Misha now. It was suffocating.  

“So what, you’re just going to disappear one night? Pull some Russian spy bullshit?”

“Perhaps.”

“That’s–that’s just–why am I even surprised anymore?” Jensen reared up and scrubbed a hand down his face. “You know what? I’m just so sick of this. You’re not even going to talk to me. Try to figure out a plan, or find a way. Can’t you get a new identity or something? Misha Collins isn’t even your real name.”

“It’s—”

“I mean, I can talk to my CO. I can tell him how you helped with the mission—”

“No!” Misha’s nails dug into Jensen’s hips through his shorts, and his voice rang startlingly loud in the small clearing. “No, I love you, but I’m not going on record and admitting to betraying my country.”

Jensen blinked, and his body suddenly sagged as if all that tension had exploded out of him, leaving every muscle lax as his hips sank down to sit snugly on Misha’s thighs. “Come again?” His voice had lost its frustrated edge, replaced by disbelief and wonder and giddiness.

“What, that I won’t admit to something I didn’t do?” Misha cocked his head to the side and frowned. Did Jensen finally snap? Did he have a stroke? Why was he looking so damn smug?

“No, you asshole.” Jensen cradled Misha’s cheeks in both hands and whispered against his lips, “The other part.”

Oh. _Oh_. And then Jensen’s lips were pressing against his, peppering chaste little kisses, coaxing Misha’s lips to yield. Misha tried to resist, this was not how a clean break worked, but he was stuck between a hard place–or rather, two hard places as Jensen pressed himself against Misha in a solid line, his body slotting into Misha’s like a jigsaw puzzle. When Misha took a shuddering breath and surrendered to the kiss, Jensen’s tongue was skirting  the seam of Misha’s lips, the tip eager and trembling as it waited for Misha to open his mouth and let Jensen in.

Jensen tasted like sharp cheddar and fresh strawberries and honeyed promises, and Misha lapped it all up with a soft moan. He pushed into the kiss, his teeth nipping along Jensen’s bottom lip as his tongue fought for dominance. Kissing Jensen was never a fight, he always gave in so readily, so pliant and soft and utterly yielding, but not this time, and Misha’s blood sang as he dove into the kiss with newfound ferocity.

The forest quieted around them, the trees the keepers of their passion. Misha’s hands roamed up Jensen’s sides, over his shoulders, down his back as his fingers brushed over each knob of Jensen’s spine. He wanted to touch Jensen all over, wanted to leave no rock unturned in rediscovering Jensen’s body, wanted to map out every single freckle with his fingers and lips.

Jensen’s hands were in his hair, nails scratching against his scalp in that deliciously painful way Misha could never get enough of. The world faded away, all that mattered was Jensen’s hips grinding against Misha’s groin—the pressure just this side of painful—and Jensen’s lips and tongue trailing down Misha’s throat. Misha leaned his head, exposing his neck like an offering, and his breath caught on the inhale when Jensen’s teeth sank into the tender hollow beneath his jaw.  

The words had slipped out, but Misha meant every one of them.

“Jen—” Misha protested when Jensen pulled back from his embrace. Daft fingers popped open Misha’s shirt buttons with a languid roll of wrists, nice and slow, one at a time, as if they had all the time in the world. The soft fabric fell open, and Misha’s breath hitched when Jensen’s lips followed the curve of Misha’s left pec to latch onto a sensitive nipple. Jensen lapped at it with the flat of his tongue in lazy strokes, and it felt nice, but he needed more. Jensen’s fingers found Misha’s other nipple, and the neglected nub sang as Jensen pinched it with force.

Misha cried out, and something between a garbled scream and a choked off whine echoed around the clearing. Jensen smiled around Misha’s nipple, and his teeth grazed the sensitive cluster before his lips trailed down to kiss along the dips and valleys of Misha’s abs. It was agonizing, this slow peppering of ticklish kisses, and Misha’s fingers delved into Jensen’s thick head of hair and tugged. He wanted something, anything other than those teasing little kisses, and Misha caught himself on the verge of begging when Jensen’s lips hovered over the tented fly of his shorts.

Jensen tugged the button undone and licked the zipper pull between his teeth. Misha struggled onto his elbows and ignored the ache in his ribs as his torso curled. His breath quickened with each exhale as Jensen’s chin dipped. The scrape of his zipper was deafening, and his cock twitched when a huff of warm air tickled the velvety head.

Jensen cocked an eyebrow and dropped the zipper with a wicked grin. “No underwear?”

“R-ran out of laundry.”

“Uh huh, sure,” Jensen murmured against the underside of Misha’s erection, his green eyes glowing with mischief beneath luscious eyelashes. Jensen licked his way to the tip and wasted no time, no infuriatingly gently, soft kisses as he ran his tongue along his lips before sucking the head of Misha’s cock into his mouth.

“Fuck me—” Misha choked, his arms giving out beneath him as his hips canted up with an involuntary jerk.

Jensen pulled back with a smirk. “That’s the idea.”

“Ha ha.”

Jensen snorted but didn’t respond, just took Misha in inch by agonizing inch, his lips a tight ring around Misha’s dick, his mouth a wet hot vacuum. Misha closed his eyes and sighed when the head of his cock brushed the back of Jensen’s throat. Jensen was his perfection, and Misha would have been happy spending eternity with his cock cradled on Jensen’s tongue. But Jensen kept pushing, and oh god, he forgot his gag reflex back at the cabin, and Misha’s eyes flew open when his cock popped past the tight ring of muscle and sat snug down Jensen’s throat.

Jensen swallowed and Misha choked on a sob as stars exploded. His cock throbbed, Jensen’s throat too hot, too tight, and Misha forced himself to breathe and relax lest he blew his load like a horny teenager. Fingers wrap tightly around the base of Misha’s cock, and he relaxed just a touch as Jensen worked him in lazy drags of lips and tongue, the head of his cock popping in and out of Jensen’s smooth throat.

Misha wanted this to never end, but Jensen had other ideas as he pulled off with a slick pop. Misha pushed himself onto his elbows again, and the sight of Jensen’s lips connected to his dick by an obscene string of saliva drew his balls sharply against his body. Jensen wiped his chin with the back of his hand and rummaged around in the back pocket of his backpack.

“Want you to watch me, Misha”—Jensen pulled out a bottle of lube and popped the cap. He kicked off his shorts and underwear with all the grace of a newborn calf before straddling Misha’s hips once more—”watch me take your cock.”

And Misha couldn’t tear his eyes away if he tried. Jensen squeezed a generous amount of lube on his fingers before reaching behind him. Misha wanted to see Jensen work himself open, watch his slender fingers twist in and out of that pink little hole until Jensen begged him for his dick. Jensen’s eyes fluttered closed, and his tongue flicked out to lick along kiss-swollen lips that glistened in the afternoon sun. Misha’s tongue darted out to mimic, his mouth suddenly bone dry as he caught the display of emotions chasing each other in lust-blown eyes.

Jensen shuffled forward, a pained whimper slipping past his lips, and Misha barely had time to register the sound before intense heat wrapped around his cock. Jesus Christ, Jensen was barely prepped, so fucking tight and pushing down on him—all trembling limbs and quivering breaths—and the way the sun bounced off the flecks of gold in the thin green halos of his eyes took Misha’s breath away.

Time retreated to stand with the trees, leaving behind a bubble that belonged to them alone. Jensen yanked his shirt over his head and threw it somewhere behind him, and Misha was half annoyed that he was still mostly dressed while Jensen was gloriously naked. Strong fingers dug into Misha’s thighs just above the knees and Jensen leaned back, the muscles of his chest and abdomen shifting and stretching as miles of golden skin pulled taut. Jensen’s torso was one graceful arch, and then his hips moved and Misha lost all ability to think.

“F-fuck–Misha,” Jensen panted. “So fucking good.”

Misha struggled to form words, but they came out garbled and confused. Jensen’s hips bounced in Misha’s lap, his ass grinding and taking Misha impossibly deep with every push. Misha was no stranger to Jensen’s body. He’d tasted Jensen in every way, and yet somehow Jensen still stunned him. He’d never seen Jensen from this angle, with sunlight reflecting off the sheen of sweat on his skin and unfettered pleasure etched in the lines at the corners of his eyes, and on top of him, giving himself to Misha and taking everything Misha offered.

Misha was a fool to think he could walk away, to give up something so fiercely intertwined with his soul would kill him if he tried. “Gorgeous. God, so fucking gorgeous.”

“Love you too, Mish. Love you so much.” Jensen’s nails dug into Misha’s flesh, and Misha honed in on the pain, pinpricks that kept him grounded as he watched Jensen soar.

Jensen’s thighs bunched, muscles straining to keep up with his urgent thrusts. Misha heaved himself up, his ribs’ protests duly noted and ignored, and wrapped his arms around Jensen’s waist as his hips snapped up to aid gravity. The ring of muscles spasmed and clamped around Misha, and Jensen flung his arms around Misha’s neck as his scream bounced around the clearing. Misha grinned against Jensen’s cheek, lips planting little kisses along sweat-soaked skin as Misha found Jensen’s prostate over and over.

It could have been seconds, or eons, time held no meaning, its passage marked by the thump, thump, thump of their synchronized heartbeats. There was an air of desperation in the way Jensen’s hips ground against Misha, the way his cock slid between their bodies as he chased his release. Misha whispered sweet nothings into Jensen’s shoulder, unsure and uncaring if Jensen even heard them, and wrapped a hand around Jensen’s straining erection.

“Oh, sweet Jesus—” Jensen’s back arched, trapping Misha’s hand around his cock as rope after rope of his release painted Misha’s chest. The last thing Misha remembered before his vision exploded in blinding white was Jensen’s lips crushed against his, sucking the scream from his lungs as he clutched Jensen close.

“—ove you, I love you so much.” Jensen’s voice cut through the ringing in Misha’s ears, and it was the most beautiful sound he’d ever heard. “We’ll find a way, just please, don’t leave.”

“Fuck, Jen—” Misha heard the words and believed them. Believed they could make things work because Jensen _chose_ him, wanted to be with him despite how fucked up he was. It wouldn’t be easy, but nothing worth fighting for was. Misha chuckled. How did his life become one cliche after another? But he didn’t care; nothing mattered except the man panting in Misha’s lap and kissing him everywhere. He clutched Jensen to him, his arms curled possessively, and he was never letting go.  

“Promise me.” Jensen rested his forehead against Misha’s, their faces so close they shared the same breath of air.

“Yeah,” Misha whispered and leaned in for a lazy kiss. “Yeah, I promise.”   

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, can't believe this is finally finished! It's been such a journey, and I thank everyone that gave this story a second chance.


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